


Memories Bring Back Memories (Bring Back You)

by sobsicles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean and Castiel are both assholes with a lot of love for each other, Dean and Castiel get their memories wiped, Dean thinks they are serial killers, Drunk Shenanigans, Eileen is not putting up with anyone's shit, He very much is not, Heavy Arguments, In the grande scheme of things...is he wrong tho?, Inspired By The Bourne Identity, Lowkey Roleplay Kink, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Sam seems like a threat, Season 14 and 15 spoilers, Sex while not having memories occurs but it is very consenting, Temporary Amnesia, Witches Screwing Things Up Again, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 66,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobsicles/pseuds/sobsicles
Summary: When he wakes, he has no idea who he is. Not his name, what he looks like, or why he’s flat on his back, staring up at the stars littering the night sky.The first thing he learns about himself is that he has shitty instincts, especially if his first one is to protect the blue-eyed man currently stabbing someone in the face.Or, the story where two strangers can’t agree on much and know even less, but they’re both fairly certain that they’re in love.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 665
Kudos: 1436
Collections: Mixtape Book Club Podcast - Discussed Fics, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fellow humans (and various others 👀), I'm so excited to share this fic with y'all today! I worked on this quite a while, and I've been eager to post it! 
> 
> One of the main reasons I'm so ecstatic is because of the amazing art done by the lovely Gio! She was an absolute delight to work on this project with, and her art is honestly out of this world. Seriously, a huge shout out to her for being so awesome, not only with her talent but also her as a person. Y'all can check out the art masterpost [here](https://sketching-fox.tumblr.com/post/617375470658437120/finally-my-posting-day-arts-created-to-spn-media), and go give her other art some love [here](https://sketching-fox.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> Another big scream for the Supernatural Media Big Bang Mods, who have been helpful and curated such a lovely Bang for everyone. Honestly, this story--and many others, I'm sure--wouldn't exist without them, so thank you so much! 
> 
> A deeply grateful thanks to my truly heroic Beta, [jscribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles)! Not only did they catch my mistakes, but they came in a clutch and betaed this fic so quickly, even when they had plenty on their to-do list! Go check them out, seriously, they have so many good fics! 
> 
> Now, I'll finish this note with one reminder. This is NOT based off of The Bourne Identity, but inspired by it. You don't need to have seen the movie to read this, but if you have, you will probably notice some little easter eggs in here. With that being said... 
> 
> Enjoy ;)

The first realization he remembers having is that the stars are oddly bright from where he lies sprawled on his back. The second, of course, is that there are troubling sounds coming from some vague point to his left. He supposes that's fair—vision and auditory processes are usually the first thing people make sense of when they wake. 

He knows that much, at least. 

Not much else, though. 

When he pushes himself up on his elbows, he blinks at the sight before him. He doesn't know anything about himself, but he has some preconceived notion that the sight waiting for him isn't...good. A man in a dull, tan trenchcoat is currently fighting off another man who appears to be attacking him valiantly. 

There's a flash of silver, the most horrible sound of bones snapping, and he watches a blue-eyed man stab someone through their face, tip to hilt, right up through the chin. 

He doesn't realize he's on his feet with intentions to help—because, _obviously_ that's the rational route to be taking here—until those blue eyes snap up to land on him and the body falls to the grass with a dull thump. 

There's a tense moment where they just stare, sizing each other up, not moving an inch. 

"Who are you?" Blue-Eyes stands to full height, finally moving, dark eyebrows pushing together as he frowns. 

"Good question," he replies. "I don't actually know the answer to that. Who are you?" 

Blue eyes narrow. "I am equally unqualified to answer that question." 

Sighing, he looks away from blue-eyes, staring down at the overly still body on the ground. "Know him?" 

"No, I don't. He attacked me." 

"Right. Yeah, I saw." 

There's another tense silence, and he forces himself to look away from the body. He doesn't feel _bad,_ exactly, just mostly confused. Amnesia is probably the leading cause in that emotion, he supposes; not remembering shit is undoubtedly the most confused a person can get. He has a base knowledge of the world, he knows that, but that's about it. 

He knows what amnesia is, he knows killing people isn't the best personality trait, and he knows that he should probably be a lot more wary than he feels. 

He also knows that he'd been seconds from helping a random stranger kill someone off bare instinct, but what he _doesn't_ know is why. 

"Do you remember anything?" blue-eyes asks, holding his palms out in warning as he takes one short step closer. 

"Not shit, actually. And I'm guessing you don't either, so we both somehow lost our memories." 

"It would seem so." 

Sighing, he shrugs internally and decides to go with his gut. It's about all he has right now. "Alright," he says, striding forward to peer at the man closer, eyes scanning his body, "I'm also going to take a shot in the dark and assume we're on the same team. You got a phone on you?" 

Blue-Eyes watches him with an air of suspicion, but uses his free hand to search his pockets. After a moment, he holds up a phone. "Yes. Why?" 

"Check your contacts, messages, calls. Anything you can find," he replies. 

Blue-eyes does. "There is a list of contacts. On speed dial, I have a picture of—" Blue-Eyes pauses, glancing up to look at him briefly. "—you. Your name is Dean." 

"Oh," he says lightly, "is it?" 

"Yes. The only other on speed dial is a long-haired man named Sam. No last names." 

"Well, let's be glad you're the type to put pictures with your contacts. Dean. D-ean _._ Yeah, okay, I can work with that." He—Dean—starts patting himself down, searching for his own phone. "Aha, here we go. Let's see what your—" 

"Castiel," Blue-Eyes interrupts, eyes fixated on his phone. "I have one conversation with a blond youth named Claire. One of the messages she sent is locked. It says my name is Castiel." 

Dean grunts quietly and shuffles a little closer, peering down at the screen of Blue-Eyes' phone. Well, Castiel, actually. He may not know much, but he's pretty sure that Castiel is a weird name. Whatever, who is he to judge? _Dean_ is pretty bland. 

"Yeah, you're Castiel. I have you in my speed dial, too. Well, it's Cass. Wait. C-A-S-S." Dean squints at his own phone, more confusion setting up shop in the throb at his temple. "Where did I get an extra _S?_ Apparently, I'm a dumbass." 

"Is Sam in your speed dial as well?" Castiel asks carefully, eyes flickering hesitantly to the phone in Dean's hand. 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Just get over here, man. We can compare notes, see where we're at." 

Castiel obliges, dropping his hand with the blade to his side, moving to stand at Dean's shoulder, his own phone on display. They cross-check their contacts, and sure enough, it's mostly the same. There are a few that Dean has that Castiel doesn't, but their speed dial is exactly the same, except Cas has pictures for his. 

Dean pokes at the screen until the picture next to his name enlarges as much as it will go. He purses his lips as he studies his own face—according to Castiel, anyway. Until he can find a mirror, he'll just have to choose to trust him. Surprisingly, it's not that hard to do, all things considered. 

The photo isn't the best quality and it's taken from a weird angle, almost like Castiel had snapped it from over Dean's shoulder, catching him as he turned around to look. But Dean has green eyes and light brown hair and a pretty nice face, over all. 

"May I look at the call list, or are you planning to stare at yourself all night?" Castiel asks flatly. 

Dean scowls. "Oh, like you aren't curious." 

Rolling his eyes, Castiel clicks away from the photo and checks the call list. It's bare, not a call saved. No voicemails, only one message locked—though, by the emotional content, Dean figures that Castiel had saved it for sentimental reasons. There's no recent internet history, no little memos in the notepad app, and nothing that gives much concrete information. 

"You?" Castiel prompts. 

Dean's phone on the other hand… Where Castiel's held next to nothing, all deleted, Dean seems to have kept most of everything. His call list is long and full. He has three missed calls from _Cass_ and five from _Sam._ Some calls to someone named _Jody_ , three back-to-back calls from _Claire,_ one that had been returned literally two minutes later. No call lasts longer than five minutes. 

His messages are less of a goldmine. Two threads; one for Castiel, one for Sam. Castiel reaches out to click on his own name, but Dean bats his hand away, doing it himself. That earns him an arch look. 

"Well, that's not good." Dean tips the phone towards Castiel. "Your last message to me was: Dean, do not meet up with Sam. It's a trap." 

Castiel is silent for a moment, then he says, "What is the last thing Sam said to you?" 

"Oh," Dean mutters, fumbling to swipe to his message thread with the mysterious Sam. He blinks rapidly as he stares at the message. "Well, things just took a turn for the worst." 

Castiel snatches the phone with a rough growl that dips even lower than the pitch of his voice, which Dean is also fairly certain isn't normal, but who is he to tell a guy how to talk. Narrowing his eyes, Castiel mouths the words to himself, then—appropriately, in Dean's opinion—he frowns at the screen. 

"Dean, when I find you, I'm going to kill you. And Cas, too, for good measure," Castiel reads off slowly, his eyebrows furrowing. 

"Welp, Sam's obviously someone we want to avoid if at all possible," Dean mutters, snatching the phone back and re-reading the words warily. 

Castiel hums quietly. "I'd say so." 

Dean grunts and scrolls through his phone to go over the rest of the information. There aren't any other message threads, and his messages with Cas and Sam only hold the last conversations within the last three hours. He only has two pictures in his gallery—one of him and the man named Sam sitting at a table with a couple of beers and a smile; one of Sam and Cas standing in what appears to be a gun range, looking at the camera in equal parts exasperation and amusement. His internet history shows a lot of porn, of many varieties, and Dean clears his throat as he quickly clicks away. 

"So, we know our names, we know that you and I are close, and we know some guy with a lot of hair wants to kill us," Dean lists off, frowning at the screen. 

Castiel hums and starts walking away, his eyes fixated over Dean's shoulder. He doesn't appear to be listening to Dean, which is just _great,_ really. 

Dean heaves a sigh and turns around, not entirely sure what the best route is to take. With no other options, he follows Castiel farther into the field, or out of it—he has no idea where he is. 

Castiel abruptly comes to a halt, freezing in his tracks, his head bent down. Dean can feel a sense of dread settle on him, the first real worry he can remember feeling, and he slowly approaches Castiel's back. He quickly understands why Castiel stopped. 

"Woah," Dean breathes out, slowly lowering his phone as he stares out at the line of bodies all slumped over on the ground. There's dried blood on the grass, limbs sprawling or curling from rigor mortis, and grotesque wounds from what appears to be stabbing. "Dude, are we...serial killers?" 

Castiel is silent for a moment, then he swallows thickly and says, "We have no proof that we did this."

Dean snorts. "Right, we're just the last two alive amongst—what, nine bodies? _Jesus."_

"Twelve," Castiel corrects. He makes a small sound of frustration. "This is...not good." 

"Yeah, you can say that again. If—if we _are_ serial killers, that means that Sam is, too. Which means that we are _screwed_ if he finds us." 

"We need to go." 

"Yeah, we really do," Dean agrees quickly, his gaze flicking to the phone in his hand. "Hey, you got a pen? Anything to write with?" 

Wordlessly, Castiel pats his pockets, then looks up with a gesture that even those with no memory can't misinterpret. _Right,_ Dean thinks, _why would a serial killer have a pen?_

Castiel sends him an inquisitive look when he starts checking himself for anything to write with, only to come up empty. He finds a set of keys that do nothing for him currently. And he does find a folded piece of yellowing paper with an address scribbled messily in the top right corner. Dean casts his gaze to the bodies littered in the field, his first strike of disgust—that he can recall—hitting him in waves. 

"What are you doing?" Castiel asks calmly as Dean side-steps over to the closest body with his face screwed up. 

Dean gags as he bends down and starts checking the pockets with shaky hands. "Oh, this is so _gross._ This is—oh god, this is nasty." 

"What are we looking for?" Castiel moves to the next body and goes through the pockets in what _has_ to be solidarity, but there isn't any disdain on his face, not bothered in the least with stealing from corpses, like maybe he does it every day. And who knows; maybe he _does,_ maybe Dean helps him do it. 

"A pen, marker, pencil. Something to write with. We need these numbers from my phone," Dean mumbles, nose wrinkling when the body beneath his hand squishes in. Ugh, _bloating._

Castiel doesn't say anything else, just continues to search. He only breaks his quiet when he finally locates a pen and holds it up. "Found it. Here." 

Dean removes his hands from the fifth body instantly, shuffling towards the sixth where Castiel offers him the pen. He hunches forward and presses the paper against his thigh, smoothing it out and using the thick muscle as a stable surface. He writes each number carefully, putting the contact name beside the digits. 

Once every number is recorded, Dean folds the paper back up and slips it into a different pocket. It's as he goes to remove his hand that he feels it. Something solid and heavy, sitting innocuously in what feels like the lining of his jacket. It turns out to be an inside pocket, a thing he discovers when he feels his way inside and pulls out whatever the object is. 

Only to immediately fling it away with a yelp. 

"Jesus, what the _hell?"_ Dean blurts, grimacing at the gun lying casually in the grass, looking all for the world like it's not a murder weapon. "Oh man, I really think we're serial killers." 

Castiel stares at the gun, then looks up at Dean with an arched eyebrow. "If that's the case, then we're probably in more trouble than...say, a regular person would be if they had amnesia. I believe the gun will come in handy at some point." 

"That makes a worrying amount of sense." Dean takes a deep breath and holds it, just staring at the gun. It's a pistol with engravings and two cream-colored side-grips, but that's about all he knows about it. He releases the breath as his lungs burn. "Yeah, okay, I'll take the gun, but I have zero idea how to use the damn thing." 

Castiel grasps the opening of his trenchcoat, pulling it back to reveal the strange blade from earlier, the handle poking out of his pocket. "I didn't know how to use this either, but it saved my life. Take the gun." 

"Fair enough," Dean allows, warily stepping forward to duck down and scoop up the gun. 

He knows to check the safety at least, and he nearly has a stroke when he sees that it's _off._ Fuck, what kind of psychopath _is_ he? He flicks it on and carefully tucks it into his belt, pointed as far away from his body as it'll go, hidden once he lets his jacket ease back over it. Once the gun is put away, he feels mildly better. Only mildly, though. 

"You want to get rid of the phones," Castiel concludes suddenly, holding his out. 

Dean clears his throat. "Well, yeah. We don't know what this Sam guy can do. I mean, hell, if he can do even _half_ of what we apparently can, then he's very dangerous. I don't think we should risk it." 

"That's very smart." 

"I'm getting the feeling that I wasn't usually the brains of the operation." 

"That doesn't seem fair. If you're being smart without your memories, then it only makes sense that you were even smarter _with_ them." Castiel pauses and narrows his eyes. "Then again, I have no knowledge of anything in our past, so we could both be idiots for all I know." 

Dean rolls his eyes and waggles his fingers at Castiel, waiting for the phone. Once in hand, he goes about removing the batteries and stomping them with his heel. He isn't sure if that counts as properly ditching the phones, but he figures that leaving them in pieces in a random field certainly works. It's only when he feels properly satisfied that he looks up. 

Castiel is just watching him with an oddly serene look on his face, as if they're doing yoga. 

For a split second, Dean _despises_ that expression. This isn't exactly a calm situation; if anything, this is _the_ perfect time for panicking. But Castiel doesn't appear to be doing that, which means Dean has to keep it together, too. He adds _competitive_ to the list of things he's learning about himself. 

Of course, when sirens suddenly start wailing in the distance, the peace on Castiel's face shatters, and Dean finds himself missing it. They can't both panic, not _now._ Someone has to keep a cool head. 

"Okay, okay, that's—that's definitely the cops," Dean mutters, his voice cracking with stress, and he's _definitely_ not calm. "We need to—" 

"Leave. _Now."_ Castiel whirls around, trenchcoat flapping dramatically in a move that seems natural and unpractised. Motion memory, possibly. 

"Uh, Castiel? Cas?" Dean stumbles after him, his eyes widening as he realizes what direction Castiel is marching towards. "Dude, you're heading straight _to_ the cops. What part of _'we are probably serial killers'_ did you not understand?" 

"The cops have to be coming from somewhere, but without a doubt, they're on a road. We just have to evade them and find the closest town," Castiel tells him, his stride never faltering. 

Dean falls into step beside him, gaping at the side of his face, his arms spread in the universal declaration of _what the everloving fuck?_ "We're in a fucking field, Cas! How do we _evade_ cops? You're insane. This is—this is just _great._ I have no idea who I am, who you are, but just my luck...I'm fucking stuck with a guy who's literally nuts!" 

"Do you see that underbrush up there?" Castiel asks, grasping Dean's shoulder and pointing into the awaiting darkness like he might actually be able to see what the fuck is out there. "I think I see a car. Even if it doesn't work, we can hide there until the cops are officially gone."

Dean squints into the blotty darkness. "How the fuck do you see that? I can't see _shit."_

"It's actually very clear. Perhaps I have honed night-vision." 

"Yeah, because _that_ makes sense. Well, if you do, that means you're probably a terrifying killer after all." 

"We can't confirm that." 

"No, and we can't deny it either." 

"Why don't we work out what we're going to do before we start worrying about whether we're a team of serial killers?" Castiel mutters, his eyes scanning the darkness, so vividly blue that they almost glow. 

Dean opens his mouth to argue, because he's pretty sure that working out whether they kill people together is really fucking _important,_ but he snaps it shut when the distant sounds of...something reaches them. It's almost a _fwapping_ noise, like a very large fan on the highest setting. It sounds like a…

"Jesus _Christ!"_ Dean bellows, tipping his head back to watch the helicopter soar over their heads. "Who the fuck are we?" 

A spotlight comes on ahead of them, and Castiel digs his nails into Dean's shoulder. 

"Run!" Castiel shouts and breaks away, pushing himself into a full sprint. 

Dean doesn't really have to be told twice, nor does he need to be advised to avoid the spotlight. Though, that's not really a struggle; he just follows Castiel, who seems a natural at clinging to the shadows untouched by the overly bright beam of light. He runs so far and so fast that his lungs and legs are on _fire_ by the time Castiel leads them to a hill they apparently now need to climb. 

At least the helicopter seems farther away. 

It's not until they reach the peak of the hill with Dean's wheezing gasps as a soundtrack that he finally understands what Castiel meant about the car. It's parked off road, surrounded by trees and covered with as many leaves and limbs as whoever owned it could find. All Dean can make out in the darkness is his warped reflection in the silver rims of the back tire that Castiel has them duck behind. 

More cop cars go by, sirens blaring, lights on a blue loop. Castiel has his hand on Dean's elbow, keeping him in place, and Dean's just doing his best not to pass out. They'd cleared that field so quickly that it's a wonder they hadn't flown. Castiel isn't even winded, which is just...weird. 

After a few moments, the flow of cop cars come to an abrupt end, continuing up the winding road towards the opening to the field. Castiel drops his hand and reaches up to open the door, turning to Dean and sweeping his hand out in offering, a long-suffering eyebrow cocking at Dean's flat expression. 

They've known each other for less than an hour, and Dean's already seconds from thumping him. 

"Can you hotwire a car?" Dean hisses doubtfully. 

"No," Castiel admits. "I don't suppose you happen to have the knowledge already?" 

Dean scowls at him. "Obviously I fucking don't!" 

Lips tightening in displeasure, Castiel jabs a finger towards the open door. "Just get _in._ We'll figure it out from there." 

Dean clicks his tongue to convey that he doesn't like Castiel's tone, but does as he's told, only for the simple fact that he has no other plan. He squirms into the car, sliding up in the leather seat, and frowns when Castiel shuts the door after him. The leaves and limbs start disappearing as Castiel pulls them away, and once the car must be free to move, he slides in behind the wheel, releasing a soft sigh. 

"So, what next, fearless leader?" Dean asks sarcastically, crossing his arms and waiting. 

Except, well...Castiel looks really fucking stressed out. He leans forward to press his forehead to the steering wheel, exhaling heavily through his nose, and he doesn't answer. After the silence stretches into uncomfortable territory, Dean takes his first spin on the shame train since waking up. 

The thing is, Dean doesn't really know Castiel. But then again...he doesn't know himself either. What he _does_ know is that they're in this together, and they're probably going to need each other to make it out of this mess alive. So no, Dean doesn't really find any pleasure in seeing Castiel have what might be a mental breakdown or a quick nap. 

He doesn't know enough about himself to figure out how he'd usually approach this situation. However, his feelings aren't exactly nonexistent. It must be _him,_ just him—memories be damned, like maybe the feelings are sourced from his very self, from his soul or some shit—because there's a strong sense of yearning just to _help._ Like before, when he'd first woken up and his first instinct had been to help a complete stranger with too-blue eyes. 

With nothing else to go on, he reaches out and does what feels right, pressing his palm to Castiel's shoulder, a steady weight. Almost instantly, the tension bleeds out of his frame, and Dean blinks when Castiel turns to look at him. 

"I am a weary soul," Castiel murmurs.

Dean rubs his thumb over the fabric of the trenchcoat at Castiel's shoulder. "I'm...sorry?" 

"Feelings are very...exhausting," Castiel informs him quietly. "It's heavy, almost. Draining. I'm learning that I'm a person who feels tired very often." 

"Could just be the running," Dean suggests awkwardly. "We'll find somewhere to sleep, even if it is just in the car. It's gonna be alright." 

Castiel hums and picks his head up, eyes flicking over the dashboard with a small frown. "Look in the glove compartment. There might be something important there." 

And just like that, the moment is gone. Dean drops his hand and ignores the odd flickering of disappointment in his mind to do as he's asked. The glove compartment, however, is _locked._

"Who locks a glove compartment?" Dean mumbles, eyebrows drawing together. 

"Someone with something to hide," Castiel replies slowly, fumbling around for something. He eventually finds it and hums triumphantly when the dull overhead light clicks on. "It could be our car." 

Dean nods. "Hate to think we've got shit to hide, but yeah. Remember the keys I found?"

"Try them," Castiel says quietly. 

Dean warily scoops out the keys he'd been so quick to cast aside as useless earlier. He fiddles with them, lips tipping down as he considers them; he's not sure if he even _wants_ the keys to work. He's got a sneaking suspicion that whatever is in that glove compartment is only going to add to his Serial Killer Theory. 

Of course, after trying what must be the key to the car, the second key slides in and opens the glove compartment with ease. They both instantly move forward, peering in curiously. Dean has to dig out the… What is that; wallets? He passes a couple to Castiel, then opens a few himself. 

They're not wallets. They're fucking fake FBI badges. 

"What did I tell you?" Dean snaps, flipping through the stash of faux FBI identities frantically. "We couldn't have been normal, could we? Of—" 

"Dean, most of these are you and Sam," Castiel interrupts. "I've found four that must be me, but that is all. Perhaps I don't often pose as an agent?" 

"I have no idea." Dean sighs and starts digging in the glove compartment yet again. "I can't remember." 

Castiel makes a small sound of frustration. "This doesn't necessarily mean we kill people, Dean. What if we just...scam people?" 

"Says the guy who's already stabbed someone," Dean mutters, frowning at the various pieces of charms he pulls from the compartment. Maybe they're into, like, protective trinkets or some shit? 

"That was self-defense," Castiel grits out. He huffs loudly and snatches one of the charms. "That's not of import, currently. We should check the trunk. At the very least, there may be other clothes to change into. We're both covered in blood."

Dean shoots him a flat look. "Two words: Serial. Killers. Dude, we are not getting outta this." 

"Yes," Castiel says firmly, "we are. Now, give me the keys. We should find some place to stay out of sight. I'm sure there is a motel close to here that we can stop at and check the trunk." 

"Sure," Dean agrees distractedly, passing over the keys without looking. He keeps digging through the glove compartment, only to freeze when he pulls out a little stack of credit cards. "Jesus, I'd say we hit the jackpot, but this is yet _another_ crime on top of all the killing. Take a look at this." 

Castiel puts the key in, but doesn't turn it, eyeing the credit cards Dean waves in his face. "Sam could possibly find us if we attempted to use those." 

"A last resort," Dean compromises. 

"Very well," Castiel allows, then turns the key. 

The engine roars to life with a smooth growl, rumbling loud, finely tuned and full of power. It's so _amazing_ that Dean jolts and nearly drops all the cards in his hands, and Castiel simply blinks. 

"Oh dude, this _has_ to be my car," Dean blurts, listening to the purr of the engine. "Do you hear that? Holy shit, that is _nice._ God, I hope this is my car. Or our car, whatever." 

"It does sound...good," Castiel agrees slowly, clearing his throat as he puts it in reverse and starts backing them to the road. He swings them around slowly and starts driving away from the field, the engine growling the entire way. 

"We good on gas?" Dean asks, leaning over to try and look at the gas gauge. 

Castiel hums. "It's full." 

"Well, serial killers or not, at least we're not the kind of monsters who don't give a fuck about their car." 

"Small mercies." 

Dean snorts. "So, we go to the closest motel and—" 

"No, not the closest. That's too obvious, don't you think? We need to go somewhere in town, but not too close to the—to where we woke." 

"Right, they'll think we'll bail, but sticking around can throw 'em off, Sam included...hopefully. We can't use the credit cards, not here. We can sleep in the car until morning, then put as much distance between us and that fucking field." 

Castiel nods. "I agree." 

* * *

The trunk is… Well. 

"Great, so we're in a cult, too," Dean mutters, staring at the wide variety of...whatever it is that's in their (or, at least he's _assuming_ it's theirs) trunk. 

Castiel doesn't seem to know what to say for a long moment. "Maybe?" he suggests awkwardly. 

Dean wrinkles his nose. "Look at this shit? You got weird ass symbols, crazy ass weapons, even some crap that looks like it belongs in a TV show about, I dunno, supernatural shit or something." 

"There are clothes, at least," Castiel says with only a bit of relief. He's a little thrown by the trunk too, Dean can tell. "It's an emergency bag." 

"Looks like," Dean agrees, picking through the contents of the bag while Castiel holds it out. "Got some clothes that should fit, bathroom stuff, even a little bit of money. Hey, we might be able to get a couple of rooms after all. I think we deserve it, and honestly, we both could probably use a shower." 

Castiel frowns slightly. "We can share and save some money. But we should get showers, yes. Then, tomorrow, we take as much money from those cards as we can and leave immediately after." 

"Sounds like a plan to me." Dean flicks his gaze down at himself, grimacing at the blood stains all over him, then surveys Castiel's less than pristine state, but he's at least passable. "Alright, you go get the room while I lock this trunk up. I would say we burn all this shit, but—" 

"I doubt we'd forgive us if we suddenly obtained our memories. I don't think we should inconvenience ourselves anymore than we have to." 

"Even if we're serial killers in a cult?" 

Castiel sends him a flat look as he digs out all the cash in the bag. "Even then," he says seriously, then turns and walks off. 

Dean shakes his head and turns back to the trunk. It's so _bizarre._ There's weapons out the ass, trinkets that can only belong to the delusional people who believe in cults, an odd abundance of salt... Hell, Dean isn't even sure if there's a spare tire beneath all this shit, and he's not willing to find out. He just shakes his head and lightly pushes the shotgun holding the trunk open with one finger, jerking his hand back just in time as the trunk slams shut. He shudders and locks it, refraining from throwing away the key. 

Waiting for Castiel to return, Dean crosses his arms and scans the shadowed motel parking lot. It's practically empty outside of two other cars besides the one he's desperately pleased is his and Castiel's, even if it is full of weird shit. There's no sounds coming from the inside of the rooms, nothing to hear outside, and Dean _still_ feels unsettled. 

He hears the door scrape back open as Castiel ducks back out of the lobby. Instantly, that unsettled feeling eases slightly, which Dean supposes is fair. It makes sense in his mind, at least. 

"Got the room?" Dean asks. 

Castiel nods. "One-zero-six. Follow me." 

Dean does, adjusting the bag on his shoulder as Castiel leads them to their room and flicks on the light. The door to room 106 opens with a horrifying creak, but Dean figures that's a good thing—if someone comes in to kill them in their sleep, at least they'll have warning. The room itself is shitty. There's a distinct odor that Dean somehow recognizes as burritos and sex; how he knows that without memories, he'll never know, but all he can do is hope that those scents weren't intermingled at the same time. The bed is in the middle of the left wall, two little stands on either side, a lamp on both. The TV is large and shaped like a box, propped on a dresser with flaking wood and broken handles. Then there's a door to what must be the bathroom.

Castiel stops in the doorway, then heaves a sigh as he pushes himself inside. Dean follows him and shuts the door, involuntarily wrinkling his nose as the smell of burritos and sex get stronger. 

"Now I understand why it was so inexpensive," Castiel mutters, stopping at the foot of the bed and looking around with a frown. 

"It'll be fine for now, Cas," Dean says flippantly, distractedly sitting the bag on the bed and pulling out the clothes. "Here, look, go take a shower. I don't think these clothes are yours; they don't really seem your style. But you should fit into them." 

Castiel takes the clothes. "They look like yours." 

"They probably _are."_

"Why aren't there clothes packed for me?" 

"You probably just wear my clothes," Dean says easily, flicking his gaze over Castiel's form. 

"Okay." Castiel seems to accept that and turns away, only to pause and look over his shoulder. "Do you think you used to call me Cas?" 

Dean blinks. "Oh, shit, I didn't realize I'd been doing that. I mean, I guess? Probably. Castiel's a mouthful, isn't it? Do you mind?" 

"No," Castiel replies. "I like it." 

"Cool," Dean says simply. 

With that, Castiel turns away and heads into the shower, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Dean keeps pulling clothes out, finding him his own outfit to change into after his turn in the shower. The water starts running, and Dean sighs as he looks around the room again. 

There's a large mirror behind the TV, connected to the dresser, and Dean freezes when he catches sight of his reflection. It's the first time he's properly seeing himself and he's a little stunned by what he sees. He hadn't expected himself to be so...pretty. 

He tucks the clothes under his arm and draws closer to the mirror, leaning in to appraise his face. It's a very nice face, if he does say so himself. Nice, strong jaw; pink, pouty lips; a nose perfect for his face; eyes so green that he blinks in surprise at the sight; and, to top it all off, he's got a light smattering of freckles that seems to bring it all together. 

Jesus, he's actually freaking _pretty._

Dean figures that he'd have to be to tolerate being around Castiel. He's pretty in his own way—a sharp jaw with the perfect amount of scruff, lips a pale pink, oh-so-full cheekbones that aren't _too_ much but just enough, and eyes so blue that Dean's still convinced they glow. And his hair is a monstrosity, yet it's so effortlessly _enticing_ that Dean kinda envies him. Though, his own hair isn't anything to scoff at; simple as it is, it fits him well. 

Dean continues to stare at himself in the mirror, gently approving his own face, and that's how Castiel finds him when he comes out of the shower. 

"This again?" Castiel asks flatly. 

Dean doesn't even glance away from his reflection, just flips Castiel off. "Shut up, I'm just getting used to my own face. You should look at yourself, man. Come here, I promise you'll like what you see." 

Castiel sighs but moves to stand beside him. Dean looks at him through the mirror, blinking slightly to see him in form-fitting attire. Gone is the trenchcoat and suit getup; he's now dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans that are a bit too tight around his thighs. It looks better on him. 

"I look fine," Castiel says after a moment. His eyes flick to Dean, scanning his features while Dean watches on curiously. "You look nice." 

Dean snorts. "Way to undersell it, Cas. Admit it, we're hot dudes. That almost makes up for the serial killer thing. _Almost."_

At that, Castiel's lips twitch up into a small smile, the first that Dean's ever seen, and it's pretty, too. 

"Just go take a shower, Dean," he murmurs. 

"Fair point," Dean replies easily. "Hey, I wonder what I look like naked. How much you wanna bet that I got freckles on my dick?" 

"Dean, we have thirty-seven dollars. I don't think it'd be wise to bet anything." 

"Yeah, I'll give you that."

Dean heads off to the shower while Castiel sighs like he's been saddled with an idiot—which, _rude._ Still, for as playful as he'd been, Dean is entirely serious about wondering what he looks like naked. It feels kinda weird to see his body for the first time, but he doubts he'll care if— _when_ —he gets his memories back. 

He feels instantly better once he strips out of the dirty clothes. There's blood and dirt all over him, but underneath all that, he looks really good. His freckles do spawn all over him and he's got a good body. There's a softness around his midsection that suggests he doesn't eat very healthy, but the slight pudge is kind of cute. His legs bow out, which is kinda strange, but they somehow bring the whole ensemble together to make him _hot._

Good for him. 

He gets in the shower and uses the same tiny shampoo and soapbar Castiel had, scrubbing his body as clean as he can get it, watching the water swirl—a brownish-pink from the blood—down the drain. It's not until the water runs clear that he gets out the shower and pats himself down with the too-small towel, not nearly dry enough to be shoving himself into clothes, but he manages. 

And, just like that, he's clean. It's almost surreal how amazing that feels, as if he's an entirely new person, which seems to fit in his current predicament really well. He heads back out, poking his head into the room before just barging out.

Castiel is still standing in front of the mirror. 

Dean snorts, and Castiel jolts like he's been slapped. He turns towards Dean and clears his throat. "Shut up," he rumbles, one hundred percent caught. 

"Not saying a word." Dean smiles widely. "Good news, I was right. There are freckles on my dick. Significantly less, though." 

"Ah," Castiel says, his tone suggesting that he has no idea what else he's supposed to say. He instantly changes the subject. "We should decide where we're going before we sleep." 

Dean bobs his head and backtracks to the bathroom to grab his jacket, pushing the rest of his ruined clothes onto the neat pile Castiel had left behind. He digs around in the pockets for that slip of paper with the phone numbers and address, then he throws his jacket to the floor carelessly and moves over to the bed to flop down on the left side, closest to the door. He pats the open space beside him. 

"Yeah, I've already got an idea about that," Dean assures him. He pats the bed again. "Come look." 

Castiel abandons his perch in front of the mirror to sink in the open spot beside Dean, mimicking his relaxed position uncertainly. "What is it?" 

"I found this in my pocket, remember? Now, I wrote the numbers, but the address was already there. It's a start, right?" Dean looks at Castiel expectantly. 

"I have no idea how to get there." 

"There's a map in the glove compartment." 

Castiel hums. "Okay. I think it might be helpful, at least. We'll need to be careful." 

"And we need to max out those credit cards before we skip town. The money is going to be necessary."

"As much as I don't like it, we don't seem to have another choice."

"No, I don't think we do, but at least we have a plan." 

"Yes, we do. Good job, Dean." 

From someone else, that would probably sound patronizing, but Castiel looks like he means that praise, so Dean offers him a smile. "Alright, _now_ we can sleep." 

He hops up from the bed and cuts on his lamp before moving to cut the lightswitch off, bathing the room in mostly darkness outside of the glow from the lamp. Castiel blinks at the swift change, and he looks like he wants to say something, but Dean just moves back over and turns his side of the covers down. He motions for Castiel to do the same, which he does, after a moment. Then they both stand there and glance between the downturned covers and each other for an awkward pause. 

"I'm not actually tired," Castiel admits, looking slightly chagrined, like saying that makes him a bad person or something. 

"You probably will be when you actually lay down and _relax."_ Dean rolls his eyes and climbs into bed, stuffing himself under the covers. He blows out a deep breath and taps the bed where Castiel is meant to lay down. "Dude, seriously, you need to get _some_ sleep, at least. I know you're stressed and confused, because I am too, but we gotta take care of ourselves if we want to stay alive."

Castiel's shoulders slump like a petulant child's would from being forced into bed. He breathes heavily, but slips under the cover, not saying a word when Dean smiles at him. Reaching up to switch the lamp off, Dean bathes the room in darkness. 

Suddenly, in the dark, the severity of the situation settles around Dean like the pressing silence of the room. The sink in the bathroom drip, drip, drips into the quiet, and Dean blinks slowly as his eyes adjust. Castiel is a tense line beside him, the perfect opposite of relaxation, but he exudes a gentle heat that Dean appreciates—the room is really cold. They don't touch at all, but he doesn't doubt that they'll seek out warmth from each other at some point in the night if the heater doesn't kick on here soon. 

"Do you think we're doing anything like we usually do when our memories are intact?" Castiel murmurs softly, his voice a near whisper. 

Dean hums. "Maybe? Can't be sure. I'm pretty sure we're just doing the best with what we have." 

"Perhaps," Castiel says softly, then falls silent. 

Dean does his best to relax, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, his hands threaded together over the blankets covering his stomach. His eyes have adjusted, but there's nothing to really look at, to focus on—there is a strange blot on the ceiling that's probably a stain, so Dean stares unseeingly at that for a long time. Castiel continues to lay rigid beside him, warm but not at all inviting. 

"Cas, man, you gotta relax," Dean mutters, huffing quietly and turning his head to stare at the outline of Castiel's face. "You're making _me_ tense." 

"I'm just—just stressed, as you said." Castiel clears his throat and shifts slightly, but that, if anything, only makes him seem more uncomfortable. "I'm not sure how to do this." 

"What, _sleep?"_ Dean blurts, his eyebrows furrowing. 

Castiel makes a small sound of frustration. "No. Relax," he corrects sharply. 

Dean blinks. "Oh. O...kay. Well, it might help if you—here, turn towards me." Castiel does, slowly. Dean waits until he can make out some of the features of his face, then speaks. "Now, close your eyes, and try to think of—I dunno, good things, I guess. Rainbows? Fluffy clouds? Just—just overall good things in general." 

"Good things," Castiel repeats flatly, like the mere idea is completely ludicrous. 

"Yeah, or try counting sheep." 

"Sheep? That seems pointless." 

"Kinda is," Dean admits. He waits, but Castiel still doesn't seem to be settling, so he tries a different tactic—the same one he'd used in the car, following his instincts. Reaching out slowly, he lays his hand on Castiel's arm, just below the sleeve of his shirt, lightly rubbing his thumb in soothing circles. "Is this bothering you?" 

Castiel relaxes slowly in increments, sighing quiet and slow. "The opposite. Thank you." 

Dean smiles slightly. "No problem, man. Goodnight, Castiel." 

"Goodnight, Dean."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't you wanna know?" Dean's voice softens against his will, lowering to a near whisper. "How we ended up here? What our story is? Where we live, what we do, how we act?" 

When Dean wakes, he isn't too surprised to find himself pressed tight into Castiel's side. His hand still rests on Castiel's arm, his cheek is now pillowed on his shoulder, and one foot is thrown carelessly over both of his. He is surprised, however, to find Castiel fast asleep, his criminally long eyelashes resting downwards, seeming to brush his cheeks. He looks peaceful like this, and Dean's reluctant to wake him. 

Still, he has to piss, and they can't just stay here forever. Carefully, he retracts himself from Castiel's form, going slow and quiet as possible. Castiel, thankfully, doesn't stir. 

Dean goes to relieve himself, splashes water on his face, then comes to the unanimous decision to take their thirty-seven dollars and go and get some sustenance. Personally, he's starving, and he's got a slight headache that suggests he's unwittingly broken a habit—he's taking a shot in the dark and hoping it's coffee. So, he leaves a little note on the pillow beside Castiel's face so he can't miss it, then eases out of the room to hopefully get something they'll like. 

He ends up spending twelve dollars on two standard coffees and two simple muffins. He grabs a lot of creamer and sugar, willing to relearn what his tastes are, and then he heads back to the motel. It's almost check-out time when he gets back, and Castiel is still fast asleep, his lips parted, his knees now curling close to his chest in the fetal position. 

Dean snorts quietly and sits the drinks and muffins down before settling on the bed, one foot tucked under his other knee. For a moment, he simply stares at Castiel, scanning his features, trying to make him less of a stranger. Objectively, Castiel is the farthest thing from a stranger that Dean has—including himself—but that's because of the circumstances. Dean doesn't know shit about Castiel, has so little go on, doesn't know like second nature how he looks, or talks, or thinks, or acts. He's curious though, interested in this really strange guy who seems to be someone he knows deeply, if he could just _remember._

Castiel abruptly wrinkles his nose, then his eyes snap open in a move that nearly shocks Dean into falling off the bed. The blue in his eyes are hazy, but growing clearer by the moment, and Dean blinks rapidly at how _weird_ Castiel wakes up. 

"Were you watching me sleep?" Castiel asks roughly, his voice low and gravelly with sleep. 

Dean feels, oddly enough, like he should be embarrassed. He coughs. "Well, not really. I was about to wake you. I, uh, got coffee. And muffins." 

"Did you?" Castiel asks mildly, pushing himself up in the bed to lean back against the wall where the headboard would be if the motel had even a modicum of style. He flicks his gaze around in interest, then his eyes light up when Dean passes him a muffin. He even smiles slightly. "You went and got us breakfast." 

"Yeah," Dean admits, passing Castiel his coffee when he perches the muffin carefully on his knee. Dean dumps the creamer and sugar packets on the bed between them, grabbing his own coffee. "Figured it couldn't hurt to have _something_ before we leave. I mean, we are about to commit credit card fraud, so if we do go to prison, I don't want that to be where we have our first meal." 

"How optimistic," Castiel says plainly, narrowing his eyes as he starts dumping creamer after creamer into his coffee. "I'm not actually hungry or thirsty, but I appreciate the thought."

"Yeah, you weren't sleepy either, but you sure slept like a baby," Dean teases, watching in faint amusement as Castiel uses every single thing of creamer without asking Dean if he wants any. 

"It was very hard to do, but I managed." Castiel stirs his coffee with the little straw Dean had provided him, then takes a tentative sip. He instantly frowns, then starts pouring some sugar in. 

Dean chuckles as more and more sugar packets disappear. He grabs two while Castiel isn't looking, quickly stirring it into his own. "So, we're gonna hit the ATMs, then head to that address, right?" 

"Yes," Castiel agrees, tapping the last sugar packet like he can make more fall out. 

"We'll need to get some more clothes on the way, and we should just toss the others." 

"What if we like those clothes?" 

"Not to be an asshole, Cas, but if you actually _like_ that trenchcoat, then it really needs to be tossed anyway, right along with your sense of style." Dean watches in fascination as Castiel takes a large gulp of his coffee like it's not scalding, like there isn't steam billowing up from the cup. "But I guess you're right. We can keep 'em in the trunk of doom." 

"Oh," Castiel says when he pulls the cup down, a ring of coffee above his top lip, "is that what you're calling it? That seems inaccurate." 

Dean huffs an amazed laugh and sips his coffee; it's hot and bitter, but he likes how it warms his entire body, like the coffee is flowing right into his veins. He stares at Castiel, willing him to lick the coffee mustache away, but he doesn't, and Dean bites back a grin as he reaches out to wipe it away with his thumb. Castiel just takes another large gulp of his coffee, instantly making all of Dean's efforts a moot point. Dean sighs and shakes his head. 

"Eat your muffin," Dean says. 

Castiel immediately picks up the muffin and nibbles at the corner, eyes narrowing in distaste before he's even swallowed. "I do not like that," he tells Dean bluntly, holding it out. "You may have it." 

"Thanks," Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. 

They sit there in comfortable silence for a long time, Dean working on both muffins while Castiel polishes off his coffee like he's being timed. With nothing else to do, he sits patiently and fiddles with the empty cup, staring off into space. Dean doesn't rush, but he's hungry enough to devour both muffins quickly, and by then, his coffee is almost cold from how long he'd spent watching Castiel drink his own. Still, he's thirsty, so it works wonders for his dry mouth. 

After they've got nothing else to consume, Dean hops up from the bed to start gathering their things. He grabs the filthy clothes from the day before and takes them out to the trunk, stuffing them right in the corner, and it looks right at home with all the other objects. He quickly slams the trunk closed, locks it, and heads back in to get their duffle. By then, Castiel is up and moving around, fiddling with his hair in the mirror, putting his shoes back on. 

"Are we ready?" Castiel asks when Dean holds the duffle and waits by the door. 

Dean nods. "Whenever you are." 

"Who's driving?" 

"Up to you." 

"Okay, I will drive again, and you can keep an eye out for the ATMs," Castiel decides, seemingly having no problem with making decisions like Dean does. 

"Sure," Dean says easily, holding the keys out. 

Castiel grabs them as he passes, holding the door for Dean like an afterthought, and they both slide into the car in sync. Dean tosses the duffle in the backseat, starts getting all the credit cards, and Castiel cranks the car before pulling them out of the parking lot. Just like that, with the growl of the car's engine and coffee breath, they've both managed to survive their very first night—the one they can remember, at least. 

They find an ATM separate from a bank, and Dean figures that's where best to do their crimes. They're efficient, both on edge from the wariness that comes with lying and also possibly drawing unwanted attention to themselves. If Sam has the smarts and the right equipment, he's going to know exactly where they are. But that's why they take the limit on each card, cashing in with three thousand dollars. They toss the cards right on the pavement, and Castiel pulls them back to the road at an entirely too calm speed, in Dean's opinion. 

But after thirty minutes, they're out of town and hitting the highway towards the city the address is at, and nothing too terrible happens.

There's no cops, no long-haired killer, nothing. 

Dean allows himself to relax, releasing a deep breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, and Castiel shoots him an amused look. "Oh, shut up," he mutters, watching Castiel's lips twitch, "you were worried too, if even you pretended you weren't." 

"No," Castiel replies simply, and damn it all to hell, Dean believes him. 

"Whatever. Wanna listen to some music?" Dean asks, reaching for the radio. 

"If it's tolerable, yes," Castiel says. 

Dean snorts. "Dude, I'm the passenger, okay? You worry about driving, I'll pick the music." 

Dean flips through his presets on the radio, eyebrows rising at the variety of classic rock stations he's got saved, although some are nothing but static in this area. He presses the button to change it over to the cassette player, blinking rapidly when Led Zeppelin starts crooning through the speakers. It's not bad music, so he arches an eyebrow at Castiel, who simply tips his head as if it's acceptable. 

That'll do. 

Dean figures it's best to get to the address as quickly as possible, plus there's safety in numbers, so he has Castiel stick to the main highways if he can. On the off chance that they're actually in danger of being followed, he figures that they'll less likely be killed out in the open where hundreds of other people could see. Plus, he doesn't really know the back roads; whether that's a memory thing or not, he doesn't know, but he wants to play it safe. 

For about a hundred miles, the music is enough for him. They've been driving for hours in silence, and that's perfectly fine, but Dean is tired of it. There are a lot of things in his head, things he'd like to let out into the world, things he wants to ask. So, he shuts off the radio and sits in silence, trying to figure out the best way to say what he needs to. 

"Dean, if there's something you want to say," Castiel says firmly, "then just say it." 

Dean clears his throat. "Right, yeah, I just—I guess there's too much. Not knowing shit about shit is really freakin' exhausting. But also, how do I know what phones are? How do I know it's Sunday? How do I know we're passing through Arkansas, but I have no memory of being here?" 

"I think the signs along the highway are a good indicator," Castiel replies, arching an eyebrow. 

"You know what the fuck I mean," Dean snaps. 

Castiel sighs, nodding jerkily. "Yes, I do. I'll admit, I don't quite understand it myself, how we woke up with no knowledge of ourselves, each other, or anyone else...but we seem to have retained knowledge of basic things. We don't know what we were doing three days ago, but for some odd reason, I know the dates of all major hurricanes that made a lasting impression on society." 

Dean looks over at him in confusion. "Dunno how you know _that._ I don't know that. But yeah, that's what I mean. I just don't think it makes any kinda logical sense that people lose their memories like this. It feels unnatural, man." 

"I agree," Castiel says simply. 

"And it's weird speculatin' on my own life," Dean continues, wrinkling his nose as he watches Castiel's unfairly handsome side-profile. "I don't know how we met, how long we've been together, but I have this sense—these _feelings_ I get—like you're important. First urge I had when I woke up was to help you, even though you were killing somebody." 

Castiel shoots him a flat look. "I was _defending myself._ And, for the record, the feeling is mutual. Whatever our history, it's clear we are walking through this strange life together. Not knowing how we got here is...unfortunate." 

"Think you'd have to know a person a real long time to be willing to help 'em kill somebody," Dean suggests, leaning his head back against the seat and smiling when Castiel rolls his eyes. "Whatcha thinkin'? I would say eight years, maybe eighteen?" 

"You know I don't have the answers to that." 

"Yeah, but it's kind of fun to make something up. We coulda met in a cool way. Maybe we were trying to kill each other, but—" 

Castiel shuts him up with a frown. "I don't want to make something up, I want to remember." 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, tough. What if we can't, Cas? What if this is all there is?" 

"Then we will adapt," Castiel replies without missing a beat, but his fingers clench around the wheel so tightly that the leather creaks. 

"Just like that, huh?" Dean snorts and looks out the window, watching the car next to them swerve as a woman tries to talk on the phone, apply mascara, and drive all at the same time. "Us against the world, is that it? Memories or no?" 

Castiel makes a small sound, a contemplative noise like this is a casual conversation. "Not to assume, or _make things up,_ but I get the feeling that it has been like that even before we lost our memories." 

"Can't know that for sure, though." 

"No, we cannot." 

"Look, I just think that there has to be some way we can learn things about ourselves. Maybe there's someone out there we can trust." Dean waves a hand in a wide gesture, waggling his fingers at the window, turning back to look at Castiel. "I don't know about you, but I think it's pretty damn important to know whether I'm a serial killer or not." 

"Perhaps," Castiel allows shortly. "If you happen to remember who's trustworthy, do let me know." 

"You're an asshole, you know that?" Dean mutters, scowling at him. 

Castiel's lips twitch. "I'm learning that, yes." 

"Don't you wanna know?" Dean's voice softens against his will, lowering to a near whisper. "How we ended up here? What our story is? Where we live, what we do, how we act?" 

"Of course." Castiel draws in a deep breath, blue eyes flicking towards him briefly, the look so intense that Dean's bewildered by it. "However, no matter who tells us, they won't truly know. They don't know our true thoughts or feelings; only we can be aware of that. The only way we can know ourselves is to remember who we are." 

Dean swallows. "And what if we can't?" 

"Then we will have to start anew," Castiel says, the sharpness to his tone easing. There's no pity in his voice, but he sounds resigned. "We'll have no choice but to know ourselves as we are." 

"Yeah, I guess," Dean mumbles, eyes fixated on the path of stubble over Castiel's cheek. A horrible thought strikes him. "Cas, what if we're not—what if we actually hate each other or something?" 

Castiel changes lanes, ignoring it when someone honks at him for not using his blinker. His throat works as he swallows and he murmurs, "Does it feel like you're capable of hating me?" 

Dean considers that seriously. He stares at Castiel's cheek, at the smooth skin by his temple, faint lines there that undoubtedly become more prominent when he's not keeping his expression blank. From the side, his lips look less chapped, and his jaw looks sharper as if that's possible. He's handsome, incredibly so, and Dean—who knows absolutely nothing about his own preferences in sexual attraction—is absolutely enthralled. It almost feels like second-nature, to just be so drawn to Castiel, like it's a part of who he is. 

"No, I don't think that's possible, Cas," Dean admits in a hoarse croak. 

"It doesn't feel likely for me either," Castiel rumbles, his voice rougher somehow. 

Dean doesn't know how to respond to that, so he goes silent and starts looking out the window again. A new car rides in the lane beside them, another woman who's bobbing her head and wriggling in her seat as she sings along to the radio. Dean can feel his lips curling up in response. 

He has no idea if he's a liar; to himself, to Castiel. He doesn't know, but he's fairly certain that it's not a good trait to invite in his new, uncharted life. He can't afford to lie to himself now, that will only end with more confusion. And the truth is, Dean doesn't know much about his life or how he lives it, but he's somehow very sure that Castiel is a part of it, possibly has been for a very long time, and most likely will continue to be for much longer. 

Castiel may not encourage it, but Dean entertains himself by idly wondering what his story is, what _their_ story is. If Dean was hard pressed to make a legitimate guess, based off all that he knows right now, he'd assume they've known each other for a really long time, love each other very much, and only don't wear wedding rings because they're most likely a pair of serial killers who gets a grandiose amount of blood on their hands far too often. 

But hey, what does Dean know? He could be _way_ off for all he knows, or right on the mark. Either way, he's not willing to bring it up to Castiel, unsure whether he wants him to deny it because it doesn't make sense or agree because nothing else does. 

Dean keeps his mouth shut, wonders when his birthday is, and eventually drifts off to Castiel calmly driving them along to their next destination. 

* * *

They reach the address before the sun sets. It's an apartment complex with old brick that's the color of burnt orange clay. The windowsills house potted plants and are trimmed with chipped white paint. Dean stares up at the building and waits to feel any recognition; there is none. 

"It says apartment 3B," Castiel informs him, holding up the wrinkled paper pointedly. 

Dean blows out a slow breath. "You think we live here?" he asks cautiously. 

"Let's go find out." 

Castiel doesn't wait for Dean to agree, just pulls the key from the ignition and eases out of the car. After a moment, Dean joins him out on the sidewalk. They share a quick look, then walk up to the door. 

Thankfully, they don't have to be buzzed in or anything, so it's as simple as walking in and up a well-worn staircase to get to the apartments. 3B is the last on the hall, facing towards them as they approach, perpendicular to the other doors. They pause outside of it and listen, but there's no sound from inside, so Dean shrugs helplessly. 

Castiel pulls out their keys and goes to try one, but the moment he brushes up against the doorknob, the door creaks open slowly. They share another silent, heavy look before stepping inside. At first, things look entirely normal. There's nondescript frames of painted flowers and fruit in the small entryway, a coat-rack holding an umbrella, two jackets, and a number of hats. That is, however, where the normalcy comes to a halt, they find out as they continue into the apartment. 

The foyer is...horrible. 

There are trails of blood all over the floor, shaped like handprints being dragged across the room. Candles burn in a large circle in the center of the room that's been enhanced by furniture being shoved out of the way. The flat screen tv is shattered where it hangs perched on the wall. The worst part of it all is the scent of death and rot that belongs to the two bodies slumped beside each other on the floor. 

"Woah." 

Castiel releases a quiet sigh at Dean's blurted word of shock. He nods and murmurs, "It is safe to assume that we don't live here." 

"Jesus, what happened _here?"_ Dean breathes out, his eyes wide as he looks around the room, throat bobbing around a lump. 

"It looks old," Castiel says, taking a step forward to look at everything with a detached curiosity. Not for the first time, Dean wonders if Castiel is a psychopath. "The blood is dry and flaking; the bodies are in rigor mortis. The stench of death here is stronger than in the field, so it's been permeating the air for longer. I'd say three days now." 

Dean blinks rapidly. "Ah, that's—well, that's really fucking creepy that you know that, Cas." 

"I'm aware of that, Dean," Castiel admits with a slight grimace, looking at Dean in faint apology. "I'm not sure how I know this. I apologize if I'm making you uncomfortable, but it seems imperative that we are aware of the details." 

"No—yeah, that's… Yeah." Dean clears his throat and takes a deep breath, looking around the room. "You said you had no idea what we were doing three days ago, but I think we just figured it out." 

Castiel frowns. "We can't be sure that—" 

"Stop _saying_ that!" Dean blurts out, waving his hands around wildly. "Dude, you're saying this happened the day before we ended up in that field, right? And this address was in my pocket; that means we were here at some point. They're _dead,_ Cas. What the fuck other answers do you think there are?" 

"I won't believe we killed them unless there is concrete evidence," Castiel replies sharply, lip curling as he looks at Dean with a coldness he's never shown before now—that Dean knows of. 

Dean scoffs and flaps a hand at the dead bodies, wrinkling his nose. "You're the death expert. Prove me wrong, if you can." 

Castiel glares at him and fully turns away, openly and shamelessly turning his back on Dean like he can't stand the sight of him. Dean rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, waiting. Ain't no way in hell he's going to do any investigating; this whole room is just _nasty._ No, Castiel's the one who has something to prove, not him. So, Dean stays put. 

Stepping cautiously around the various patches of dried blood, Castiel carefully moves to crouch down beside the bodies, reaching out to turn them over to expose their faces. They're both women, clearly twins, both with kinky curly black hair and the same mole above their lip. Their eyes are vacant and dull, blood clinging to their necks. Dean doesn't need Castiel's creepy death intuition to know that their throats were slit. 

"Their throats were—" 

"Yeah, I got that, Cas." 

Castiel's lips tighten in annoyance and he slowly starts patting their bodies down. He digs through their pockets, but comes up empty. With nothing else to find, Castiel bounces up smoothly and starts looking around the various objects littering around. Even Dean can acknowledge that they are weird; it's—well, it looks like some more cult shit, if he's honest. 

Dean hangs back and lets Castiel do his thing, eyes flicking around the room curiously. He doesn't recognize anything, but then again, the place could be his home of twenty years and he'd never know. However, there are some signs that suggest it isn't. There's no pictures of him or anyone else around, nothing really screaming that this place is his. At the very least, he's expecting a jacket on the coat-rack to be his, but they're all too small and feminine. By his guess, this place belongs to those twins. 

He doesn't like the idea that he'd killed these girls. It grates on his nerves in a way that he suspects it doesn't on Castiel's. Maybe because he's so quick to think they didn't do this, but Dean must be more inclined to believe the worst and doubt the best because nothing is telling him that they _didn't,_ so he's pretty convinced that they did. 

"There's no proof suggesting we did this," Castiel announces, stepping back around the couch to face Dean with a scowl. 

Dean nods. "Okay, that's fair. But you've got to admit that if there's a chance we didn't, there's even more of a chance that we did." 

"No." Castiel arches an eyebrow. "No, I don't." 

"Cas, you can't _remember,"_ Dean snaps, tossing his hands up. "How the fuck are you going to say—"

_"Because!"_ Castiel explodes, marching forward abruptly to get in Dean's face, blue eyes blazing with bright intensity. "I know in the same way you are certain we are close that you are _not_ bad. I _know_ it, Dean. You are not a killer—or, if you are, you only kill those who need to die, that is all. I have no idea where this assurance comes from, but even if I didn't know my own name, I _know_ that you are good." 

Dean swallows, holding his breath as Castiel lingers far too close in his personal space. The proximity makes Dean's skin prickle with a skittering sensation that suggests there's a gravitational pull to Castiel's body and Dean's doing a shitty job of ignoring it. There's a weird quality to yearning for someone you don't even really know, but Dean supposes that attraction and connection transcends memories. 

"Cas," Dean whispers, and he doesn't really know what else he's supposed to be saying. His train of thought has been blown right off the tracks. 

There's a tense moment where Dean is pretty sure they're either going to come to blows or start making out—he doesn't know which, but each option holds merit. Hell, he doesn't even know what they're arguing about anymore, if they were even arguing at all. All he knows is that they're unbearably close, there is a tension in between them that's near suffocating, and they have no idea if they've ever done this before. 

Castiel abruptly blinks and clears his throat, leaning back. "I—I apologize," he says softly, blinking rapidly and peering at Dean cautiously. "I did not mean to crowd you, I simply felt the need to make you understand. You're right, I can't know for sure that we didn't kill these girls, but I _do_ know that you're not a bad person, somehow." 

"Okay," Dean mutters, coughing when his voice comes out a little rough. "Alright, I believe you. I mean, I'd like to think I'm not a bad guy, so—so yeah, let's go with that." 

"There's nothing here." Castiel whirls away, suddenly back to business. "We should leave." 

Dean frowns. "And go where? Do what? We haven't found anything. What are we supposed to do?" 

"You knew there was a chance that we'd come up empty." Castiel turns back around to face him, lips tipped down slightly. "We don't know our last names. We don't know where we live. We don't know who we can trust. At this point, there isn't much else for us to do _besides_ keep calm and out of Sam's way." 

"I don't—" Dean heaves a sigh and looks around the room, reaching up to scrub his fingers over his forehead, trying to rub away the headache. "I don't like it, Cas. We can't just—just give up." 

"Dean, we don't have any other choice," Castiel murmurs, frowning deeper. "Perhaps we can regroup and figure things out, but for now, we need to put as much space between us and this apartment as possible." 

Dean has to admit that Castiel has a point. Just hanging around a crime scene is asking to be arrested. He sincerely doubts they'd get very far on telling the police that they're amnesiacs who just _happen_ to be tied to multiple deaths and fraud in ways they can't remember. He doesn't know much, but he's self-aware enough to realize that situation wouldn't go in their favor. 

Nodding, Dean takes one final look around the room. Despite Castiel's certainty that he's a good man, he can't help but search for any sign that he's the reason those women aren't moving. It must be a trait of his, to feel responsible for things he can't really know are his fault for sure. Whatever it is, it's annoying as all hell, so he shakes his head and rips his gaze away. Castiel is already heading towards the door, so Dean takes a deep breath and follows him. 

Dean doesn't ask where they're going; he just gets in the car while Castiel slides behind the wheel. He has an idea of where Castiel will take them. They don't have many options right now, they've been driving for hours, and Dean's stomach is rumbling so loud that it's not even funny. 

He's not surprised when they pull into a diner parking lot, the one they passed as they came into town. The sun is just setting, putting a chill in the air that's just on the knife's edge of being genuinely uncomfortable. While Dean shivers in his t-shirt, goosebumps rising on his skin, Castiel doesn't so much as falter in the evening air. 

"We'll need to stop by and get more clothes before we find somewhere to sleep," Dean tells him, rubbing his hands together and picking up his pace as they head inside. Castiel just nods, scanning the little diner like it might hold a hidden enemy.

Castiel does that a lot, Dean notices. His attentiveness to their surroundings is equal parts comforting and alarming. It almost seems second-nature, an instinctive reaction to entering a room, one he probably doesn't even realize. It reads like paranoia, but Dean gets the feeling that Castiel is just _like that,_ and it's actually nice to know that someone is watching their backs because Dean sure as hell isn't, far too taken by the scents of food drifting from the kitchen. 

It's the sort of place that you seat yourself, so Dean leads them to a little booth in the corner where they're out of the way but also beside a window. They can watch their car and keep an eye out for any long-haired serial killers, so that's all that matters. Castiel doesn't sit opposite of him, just scoots into his side of the booth like it's the most natural thing in the world; Dean figures it has more to do with being able to watch the door and the street simultaneously, but it doesn't feel awkward, so maybe it _is_ natural for them.

The menus are sticky with syrup. Dean grimaces and dabs at them with a napkin while skimming the options curiously. He wonders what he likes. So far, he only knows he enjoys coffee and muffins. 

"Hey, you're back!" A chipper waitress with a name-tag reading _Jenny_ walks up with a bright smile, addressing Castiel. "Did you find your friend?" 

Castiel blinks up at her. "Um." 

Her gaze flicks to Dean. "Oh," she says, perking up all over again. "Is this him? He _was_ in here, just like you said. Glad you found him." 

"Ah," Castiel replies, clearing his throat. "I am glad I did as well." 

Dean can sense that there's information to be gathered here and slaps on a smile. "He was looking for me?" he asks with a small huff of laughter. 

"Sure was," Jenny tells him, reaching down to grab a pen from her pocket and tap it on her pad. "Poor thing came here looking like a lost puppy about three days ago. Described you to a _tee,_ even knew exactly what you ordered. Where'd you run off to? He was really worried about you." 

"My phone died," Dean said casually. "Had some business to take care of, but I lost my charger so I couldn't tell him where I was." 

Jenny nods, leaning in with a secretive smile. "I'll say. Did you ever find those girls you were looking for? Well, I imagine you can't tell me, can you? Being FBI and all. I hope I helped, anyway." 

Dean's smile becomes fixed as Castiel goes tense beside him. "Ah, right. Yeah, can't say much. But uh, you helped plenty, thank you." 

"No problem." Jenny winks and salutes, then clicks her pen and eyes them patiently. "So, how can I help you agents this evening?" 

"Do you remember what I ordered last?" Dean asks warily, biting his bottom lip. 

Jenny frowns in consideration. "Just a burger and fries, right? Said it was a damn shame we didn't sell beer, but you settled for a coffee and some water." 

"I'll have that," Dean tells her with a tight smile. 

Castiel clears his throat when she looks over to him, pen at the ready. "I'll have the same as him." 

"Funny," she says with a small smile, shaking her head as she scribbles away on her pad, "you said that the last time, too." 

With that, she walks away to place their order, and Dean tries to stay calm. This is bad. _Really_ bad. This doesn't really make sense in his head. Why had he and Castiel split up before those two girls died? Did they meet up and kill those girls? Did Sam have Castiel, who managed to escape and warn Dean? Nothing makes any sense, _none of it,_ and Dean really isn't enjoying being so in the dark about all of this. 

One thing is for sure, though. 

"We can't stay here," Castiel murmurs. 

Dean nods. "Right. They think we're feds. Eventually, someone will find those girls, and it looks like we're the last to see them alive." 

"We'll eat, stop to get necessities, then drive for a few hours. We'll find a motel out of the way." 

"Sounds good to me, Cas." 

Neither of them mention how strange all of this has become. To go from believing that they've been on this whole journey together to having it confirmed that's _not_ the case is just...problematic. It is comforting to know that Castiel had apparently been worried about Dean and searching for him. What _doesn't_ make sense is the fact that they weren't together at all. The one thing they'd both agreed on since all this started is that they're a team who doesn't stray very far from each other. 

Turns out, for some reason they have no memory of, that's not entirely the case. 

They can't dwell on it now, they have shit to do. 

Dean devours his food like it's his last meal, and _god,_ it is so good he could cry. Castiel, on the other hand, just picks at his food like he doesn't really care for it. He eats the burger oddly, biting each part separately; first the top bun, then the pickles, then the burger, then the bacon, then the bottom bun. He tears his fries in half and pushes out most of the potato, eating just the salty skin. He doesn't finish anything he starts on and seems to play with the food more than he eats it, but Dean's strangely thankful to see him do something so _human,_ even if he does it in a way that doesn't make a lot of sense. 

They finish up at the diner and hurry to stop at a shitty thrift shop to grab as many t-shirts, jackets, and jeans that will fit. They spend a whopping thirty dollars between them, but they're set for a couple of weeks, at least. As they're heading out of town, they stop at a Wal-Mart to get food they can eat on the road, toiletries they don't already have, and two very cheap flip phones that might come in handy in case they're ever separated. 

And then, just like that, Castiel is driving them three hours out of town until he comes up on a Motel 6 that just reads _tel 6_ in the dead of night. 

"This looks...out of the way," Castiel notes as he pulls them into the nearly deserted parking lot. 

Dean sighs. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Cas." 

Castiel ignores him and pushes himself out of the car to go get them a room. Dean doesn't need to be told to get their things, already understanding the routine of this after only having done it just the once—or the one time he can recall, anyway. By the time Castiel is walking back, Dean is holding a couple of bags and the trunk of doom has long since been locked. 

"I got us three nights," Castiel informs him, leading him to room 316. "I wasn't sure how long we'd need to stay. I think we could do with some time to gather our thoughts and acquire a new plan." 

"I don't think we should stay in a place too long." Dean slams the bags down on the bed with a frown, turning to look at Castiel in barely concealed annoyance. "Come on, man, you gotta consult with me on these things." 

Castiel sighs. "It's simply a precaution. We may leave whenever we want, but—" 

"And you just wasted money," Dean snaps, reaching in a bag to snatch out the stupid t-shirt with the flaming skull on the front. 

"I can get a refund, Dean." 

"And what if we have to leave in a hurry?" 

"Then I'm sure we'll mourn the loss of the grandiose amount of money I spent on this _amazing_ room," Castiel retorts sharply, waving a hand around the admittedly terrible room. 

Okay, that's a fair point, but Dean's still pissed. "Dude, you have no _idea_ how long we'll be running! That money could come in handy, and you just—" 

"Stop," Castiel orders firmly, shoving the bottle of generic body wash they'd just bought at Dean's chest, glaring at him. "I'm in no mood to argue with you right now, Dean. Go take a shower." 

"Well, that's _tough._ We're going to talk about this," Dean argues, narrowing his eyes. "I know you're confused and just as much at a loss as I am, but we're supposed to be a team, okay? You can't just _decide_ things without talking to me." 

"Fine." Castiel clenches his jaw and reaches out to grasp the bottle of body wash that's still clutched to Dean's chest. "Since you're being difficult, _I'll_ go take a shower instead." 

Just as Castiel _yanks,_ Dean locks his arms and holds onto the bottle with all his might, not budging an inch. However, he severely underestimates Castiel's strength, because the next thing he knows, his whole body is being pulled forward _with_ the bottle. Dean blinks rapidly as he's tugged forward a few steps against his will, Castiel's hold on the bottle unrelenting, but Dean refuses to let go. 

"You're being childish," Dean grumbles, keeping a hold on the bottle as Castiel tugs on it again. 

Castiel narrows his eyes. "Oh, _I'm_ being childish? Need I remind you that you're the one who's angry because you weren't included in something?" 

"Hey, fuck you," Dean growls, sharply pulling on the bottle and failing to take it from Castiel's hands. "I'm the one who's being rational. It's _smarter_ if we're both on the same page about everything." 

"My mistake," Castiel rumbles, "I'll be sure to let you know everything I do and think at all times." 

"That's not what I'm saying!" Dean shouts, giving up all pretenses of trying to calmly take the bottle back and yanking on it in vigor. "Just tell me before you make big decisions next time!" 

"It's not a big decision, Dean! It's an extra two nights at a terrible, cheap motel in case we need them. That's all! You're being ridiculous!" 

"I don't think we should be staying in one place too long! Maybe you're not worried about the long-haired asshole who's trying to hunt us down and kill us, but I am!" 

"You're worried about everything!" Castiel growls, the sound so low that it seems to vibrate in his chest. 

Dean's about to start yelling, _really_ yelling, but Castiel shoves at the bottle and tugs it harshly all in one smooth move, trying to rip it from Dean's grip. It's something that might work if Dean wasn't such a stubborn bastard—a thing that he's quickly learned about himself—and just moves _with_ the bottle, which puts them chest-to-chest and nose-to-nose. 

Everything abruptly goes silent. 

The tension is still heavy and thick, but it swirls and tries to form into something else, and Dean suddenly has no idea what the fuck he was so upset about to begin with. Hell, it's a wonder he can think at all with Castiel standing a mere breath away, eyes so wide and vividly blue that some poetic part of Dean's brain thinks he could drown in them. There's a bottle of bodywash between them, their fingers overlapping as they hold on, but that's about the only thing that separates them at this moment. 

"We're doing this again," Dean mutters, licking his lips and watching with some vague sense of satisfaction as Castiel's gaze flicks down to watch the motion. 

Castiel clears his throat. "Yes. It, ah, appears to be something that happens naturally." 

"We probably do it a lot," Dean says, though he has no idea if they do. God, he _hopes_ they do. 

"Perhaps," Castiel agrees, the word slow and uncoordinated like he's not really thinking about what he's saying. 

Dean is slightly fascinated with the way words take shape on Castiel's lips. "I wonder how we handle it, usually. I mean, I have an _idea,_ but uh—" 

Castiel's gaze flicks back up to meet Dean's, a cautiousness in his eyes. "We can't be sure." 

"Right, that." Dean coughs slightly and forces himself to take a step back. "Can't fake attraction, Cas. Unfortunately, that doesn't matter if we don't know how far it goes." 

"You're right, of course," Castiel agrees quickly, holding the bottle of body wash in his hands. He offers it to Dean with a sheepish look. "We shouldn't—" 

"No, we should not," Dean says carefully, biting his bottom lip and taking the bottle. "I'm gonna go take a really cold shower. And uh, I'm sorry about being a dick. Staying a couple of days can't hurt." 

Castiel's face softens. "And I apologize for not discussing it with you first. I will next time." 

"Thanks, Cas." 

With a small smile, Dean gathers his clothes and bottles of body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. He goes to the bathroom to do just as he said he would, taking a cold shower. If he fucks his fist for the first time he can remember, biting his bottom lip so hard that it hurts to hold back Castiel's name as he spills into his hand, then that's no one's business but his own. He's just making memories, after all. 

When he's dressed and clean, he heads back out to the room, nodding as Castiel passes him to take his own shower. Dean crawls into bed and tries to wait up, knowing that Castiel struggles to sleep. But after the day he's had and the excellent orgasm he can still feel tingling in his skin, he has no struggle with drifting off as he waits. 

He thinks—in that half-asleep drowsy way that means he can't be sure—that Castiel eventually does come to bed and settles into his side. He must be right because he feels a warm weight in his arms and his dreams turn gentle and comforting in their indistinct variety. But he's far too comfortable to wake up and check for himself. 

So he doesn't. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point, Dean's almost past caring what the right thing to do is. Sure, they shouldn't do anything about whatever magnetic thing that sits between them, but shit, he really fucking wants to. If this is how they are naturally and he hasn't done something about it by now, then he's a goddamn fool.

Getting to know a person who doesn't know themselves is a truly grueling endeavor, especially when you don't know yourself. 

Dean doesn't know his own hopes or dreams. He doesn't know his own fears, what his favorite color is, who he lost his virginity to—if he has. He doesn't even know how old he is, but he guesses somewhere in his mid to late thirties. Castiel is in the same boat as him, knowing nothing about himself or his past, but he seems to be particularly struggling with understanding himself as a person.

There are some things that they learn about themselves and each other, however. No matter what they don't remember about who they are, it's not as if they're completely a clean slate. 

Castiel is more inclined to dry wit, having a cutting sarcasm in spades. Dean, on the other hand, seems to find puns and immature jokes the funniest, with Castiel—who doesn't seem to get that humor—as an exception. They don't particularly _enjoy_ each other's preferred humor, but there's a natural ease in which they find each other funny. It's borderline dependent on the fondness they have for one another that seems to be soul-deep, making it simple to force the other to smile without much effort. 

Dean likes background noise. If he has anything to do with it, the TV is always on, even if they're not watching it. Castiel, however, doesn't seem to care for it. He can tolerate it, but Dean notices how he relaxes into silence, like it's when he's most peaceful. Dean can't relate; the silence makes him feel out of place, too stable, like he needs the business of noise and movement out of the corner of his eye to keep him relaxed. 

Castiel doesn't enjoy eating and won't, if he can get away with it. Dean fights him tooth and nail on that one; people need food to survive. It's not a struggle for Dean, who likes food so much that it's almost unhealthy. He'll eat if he's hungry, sure, but he also eats when he's bored, or when it's there, or when he can't figure out what he wants. 

Castiel _does,_ however, enjoy sleep. It's hard for him to do, like it's something he's not used to. There's a whole process to it, but once he's out, he is _out._ He even _snores,_ which shouldn't be as adorable as it is. Dean, once again, doesn't feel the same. He doesn't sleep that often or for long, but he has no idea why. He sleeps well, usually, but his body seems to protest him getting to enjoy it in length. 

It's almost ironic how different they are when Dean really thinks about it. They bicker almost as much as they don't, arguments spanning between them over the smallest things. Dean's boots in the walkway. Castiel getting Dean's pillow wet with his wild, damp hair after a shower. Dean eating loudly. Castiel not eating at all. 

Little things that always end up going too far, leaving them standing far too close together with their breath held as they wait to see what will happen next. One of them always backs off before it can go too far, but Dean can admit to himself that he enjoys the strange ritual far too much. 

They do stay in room 316 for three nights, and then Dean can't take being still anymore. He feels like a fish in a barrel, too easy of a target, and there's an itch under his skin that makes him think he's supposed to be doing something. He just really, _really_ hopes that itch has nothing to do with being a serial killer—a thing he's still stuck on, while Castiel seems serious about choosing not to believe it. 

They drive in no particular direction, taking turns driving for the two days it takes for Dean to finally feel comfortable enough to stop. Castiel doesn't say it, but Dean knows he thinks that he's stuck with someone who's too paranoid. Dean doesn't care about that, though; being paranoid is better than being dead. 

They end up in a small town in South Dakota, hauling their things into room 212 with the same mind-numbing boredom that they've had for the past few days. It's only been seven days—a full week—since they woke up with no memories, and Dean's already tired of his mundane life. 

That's why, after their respective showers, Dean turns off the TV and says, "Why don't we go out?" 

"Go out?" Castiel repeats slowly, picking his head up off his pillow to squint at Dean suspiciously. 

"Yeah. Just—just go _do_ something. Anything, really. I'm so fucking bored," Dean tells him, frowning. 

Castiel squints harder. "Is that not a risk?" 

"Dude, we can't keep doing _this_ forever. Not that you're, uh, bad company," Dean assures him when Castiel's gaze turns icy, "but I'm kinda going out of my mind here." 

"Hmm." Castiel pushes himself up on his elbows, lips pursed slightly as he considers it. "What do you suggest we go _do,_ Dean?" 

Dean shrugs. "I honestly don't care. There was a bowling alley by that drug store. I mean, that'll cost money, but I'm good to eat ramen noodles for a while if that helps at all." 

"You hate ramen," Castiel notes. 

"Well, yeah," Dean agrees, flapping a hand carelessly as he nods. "Just goes to show how bored I am. Come on, man, let's go do—Hey! What about the bar? There was a sign out front for half-off shots. We could get really drunk for real cheap." 

"We haven't been drunk yet," Castiel muses, lips twitching as Dean visibly perks up. "That we can recall, of course. Which would you prefer? Getting drunk, or going to bowl with me?" 

Dean opens his mouth, then immediately shuts it. Castiel is watching him calmly, but Dean can sense a trap like he can tell when coffee is decaf or not. He has to be careful here, and he has no idea why, but he just _knows_ that his answer matters for some reason. Maybe it's his paranoia, but that particular trait hasn't failed him so far. 

Dean licks his lips. "Uh, well, getting drunk could be—I mean, it'll probably be fun. Reckless, maybe, but you know. And—and bowling would be… It'd be kinda like a—a date, wouldn't it?" 

"I don't know," Castiel replies. "Would it?" 

Dean thinks about this _really_ hard. This could go one of two ways. Either they go get drunk, come stumbling back to the motel, maybe get a little handsy with alcohol as an excuse. _Or,_ they go bowl, flirt a little, maybe get a little handsy for no other reason than because they want to. There is, of course, the other option where they don't get handsy at all, but Dean doesn't really like that one. 

At this point, Dean's almost past caring what the right thing to do is. Sure, they _shouldn't_ do anything about whatever magnetic thing that sits between them, but _shit,_ he really fucking wants to. If this is how they are naturally and he hasn't done something about it by now, then he's a goddamn _fool._

Dean's pretty sure they're not _both_ idiots, so his guess is that they just fuck each other five ways to Sunday as much as they like. Can't hurt to do it now, he doesn't think. 

"Let's—we should go bowling," Dean blurts out, shoving his hands into his pockets and hating how sweaty they are. He coughs. "Probably shouldn't get drunk and let our guards down." 

Castiel's smile is slow and stupidly charming. 

Fifteen minutes later, they're dressed casually and walking into the bowling alley with a wariness that probably looks odd to anyone who pays attention. They don't really socialize with anyone but each other, so dealing with people in any setting always makes them cautious. There's always the chance that someone might recognize them, or that they're being followed, or that they've already been here before. 

Fortunately for them, no one jumps out and claims to know them, so they both relax as they wait in line to pay and get their shoes. Thankfully, there's not a lot of people bowling tonight, so they don't have to wait to get their own lane. They pay for two hours, which doesn't put that much of a dent in their money, especially considering how careful they are with it. 

"Do you know how to bowl?" Castiel asks him as they switch over to the correct shoes. 

Dean snorts. "If I do, I don't remember how. Maybe it'll be like motion-memory. But I do know that it's not something you _have_ to be good at." 

"If you say so," Castiel murmurs, squinting at the machine as it asks him to type his name in. Carefully, with one finger, he types **_C A S._ **

"Don't worry if you're bad at it," Dean assures him, standing to type his own name in, sending Castiel a fond smile. "I think we're just meant to have fun." 

Again, with a glint of amusement his too-blue eyes, Castiel says, "If you say so," and proceeds to find his bowling ball, walk to the lane, and launch it with a precision that instantly gets him a strike. 

Dean's mouth falls open. Castiel turns around and smiles, bowing low at the waist in a way that can't be anything but a challenge, and oh, it is _so_ on. 

The thing is, Dean fucking sucks. 

He tries not to be so competitive at first. This is a not-date, after all. But he gets gutter-balls as much as Castiel gets strikes or spares, which is a truly depressing amount, and Castiel doesn't seem to care to hold back on his gloating. Every single turn, Dean will declare that he's going to actually hit a pin and make Castiel swallow his teasing, and every single fucking time, he _fails._ Castiel, the asshole, does not let up on his mockery. 

Dean tries, he really does. He has no idea what he's doing wrong. He attempts to copy Castiel's near perfect form, only to fuck it up each time. While Castiel uses the same bowling ball that seems to mold itself to his will, Dean tries different ones because none feel right. They're halfway into the first game and Dean hasn't hit a pin once. 

He wouldn't change a fucking thing. 

Castiel is _happy._ It's not like Dean's never seen him smile or be a self-satisfied asshole—he definitely has. It's the way Castiel carries himself. He's more relaxed than he's ever been without being asleep; his smiles linger for a lot longer than they usually do; he laughs freely every time Dean misses a shot, nose wrinkling in a way that is almost too fucking adorable to look at. Dean honestly doesn't know how he's gone so long without seeing this. It's fucking contagious, and he's just as playful and happy as Castiel is, despite losing. Hell, he's willing to stand here and look like an idiot forever if Castiel will just keep right on smiling like _that._

As the first game comes to an end, Dean has absolutely no points while Castiel has all of them. For the sake of the whole thing, Dean plays up his annoyance, but Castiel seems to see right through him, his eyes sparkling with mirth. 

"Where the hell did you learn to do that?" Dean asks, watching Castiel's little generic character do a little dance on the screen. 

Castiel sits in the seat next to him, pressing in a lot closer than he usually would. "I have absolutely no idea," he says in open amusement. "I could see the pins perfectly and somehow knew at what velocity and angle the bowling ball needed to go to hit them. Can't you do that?" 

Dean stares at him. "Well, obviously _not,_ Cas. Jesus, you fucking slaughtered me, man." 

"This was a good idea, Dean," Castiel tells him, lips curling up, wrinkles forming around his eyes. 

"You're a shitty winner." 

"You're a sore loser." 

"Damn right," Dean chirps, reaching out to clap a hand on Castiel's shoulder as he pushes himself up to his feet. "I'm gonna go grab snacks from the concessions, then come back and beat your ass." 

Castiel arches a doubtful eyebrow. "Sure you will."

Dean rolls his eyes and heads off to do exactly that. Castiel can be an asshole sometimes, but Dean is just as bad. This is fun, though. And he's determined to win at least _one_ game before the night is over. What he needs is brain food, clearly, which means pizza and curly fries. 

He buys a slice of pizza for them both, a drink for them to share, and a large order of curly fries for them both to pick over. They have at least another hour and a half to keep the fun going, and Dean plans to do just that, so some food breaks will give them a little time to relax. Bowling is fun, sure, but it's a bit more exercise than they've gotten in the last week, so he can feel it in his thighs. Plus, getting a few minutes to just sit down with Castiel and talk is always fun, and getting him to eat is a near miracle. 

It takes just over twenty minutes for him to get everything he ordered, and he walks carefully on the way back as he balances everything in his hands. He barely has a good grip and damn near drops everything when he steps down to shimmy towards their little area. As he lifts his head, he gets sight of a woman sitting next to Castiel, laughing and leaning into his space, her hand draped over his arm like it belongs to her. Dean halts in place. 

Jealousy is… 

Well, Dean doesn't like it. 

It takes a hold of him so hard and so fast that he's powerless to stop it. Heat skitters up his spine, spreading through his body, making his face go hot. There's such an intense _anger_ that he's slightly surprised by it; he's never felt like this before, or not that he can remember. He doesn't even _know_ this woman, but he's thinking not-so-nice things about her like she's his worst enemy. 

Before he knows what he's doing, Dean is marching forward to drop everything in his hands off on their designated table and approaching them with a smile that nearly hurts on his face. 

"Cas," he greets through gritted teeth, "who is this?" 

Castiel looks up at him and his eyebrows instantly fold together in confusion. "Dean, this is Sharon. She saw how well I did and came to congratulate me." 

"Hi," Sharon says brightly, looking up with a sweet smile. "You must be the one who lost!" 

"Ha, funny," Dean replies flatly, shoving a hand out to offer it to her. "You're hilarious." 

Sharon shakes his hand, eyebrows hiking up at his tone. Her gaze flicks back over to Castiel, and Dean knows what crosses her face—unabashed want. He can't really blame her, Castiel is really fucking good-looking, but _damn._ If she's been watching their game so closely, then she must have seen how wrapped up in each other they were. It's not like they came right out and said it was a date, but he thinks it's been pretty obvious that's what it is. 

"My friends do say I have a good sense of humor," Sharon says awkwardly, jerking her thumb over her shoulder to point out a group a few lanes down. "They're all pretty terrible at bowling, but I play professional. I was wondering if Cas here would be open to a game. I'd love some competition." 

Dean clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath to calm himself. He's not going to let his annoyance get the best of him. Castiel is a grown man and _not_ Dean's property. If he wants a game with someone who will actually pose as a challenge, then that's his decision. Dean can't promise that he'll be happy about it—he definitely won't and will sulk in the arcade until Castiel searches him out again—but he'll do whatever it takes to keep him happy tonight. 

So, Dean forces himself to release that deep breath, doing his best to relax. He manages to grit out, "That's really up to him." 

"While I appreciate the offer," Castiel tells her with a gentle smile, "I'm actually in the middle of a date. But thank you." 

Sharon's eyes go wide. "Oh god, I'm so sorry! I was paying attention to—Jesus, that's so shitty of me. Fuck, I didn't—you two are _real_ cute, that's my bad. No, you have fun, really." 

She instantly hops to her feet and shoots Dean an apologetic look. Yeah, she knows what she was doing. But Dean's hard pressed to find his earlier annoyance, too caught up in the way Castiel had just blatantly called this a date. Something in his chest wriggles at the acknowledgement, and he's having a damn hard time biting back a grin as Sharon hurries back over to her friends. 

Dean raises his eyebrows at Castiel. "A date, huh?" 

Castiel blinks innocently, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, I had to tell her _something_ to make her leave before you ground your teeth into dust. You don't mind, do you?" 

"Nah, Cas," Dean tells him, huffing an amused laugh and shaking his head, "I don't mind." 

With that, Castiel jerks his chin at the forgotten food on the table. "Pizza?" 

They spend the next twenty minutes eating and talking, though Castiel doesn't really eat much. Dean's beginning to wonder how he hasn't lost any weight; he barely eats enough to keep a bird alive. Dean ends up eating the majority of the food while they casually debate on whether or not Castiel was ever in the army—he seems the soldier type. After, they stand back up to play another game. 

This time, Castiel is just as good and Dean has gotten no better, but they don't seem to care to be as competitive. Towards the end, after Castiel has definitely won, Dean is standing at the lane and considering all the ways he could actually toss the ball so it won't go in the gutter immediately. A hand touches his elbow and he nearly drops the damn bowling ball on his foot as he jolts. 

"Jesus fuck, Cas," Dean blurts, shooting him a scolding look. "I'm gonna put a damn bell on you." 

Castiel hums distractedly. "You twist your wrist when you release. Like this, look." 

Dean's minute frustration at being snuck up on vanishes the moment Castiel plasters his front to Dean's back, reaching around to put one hand on Dean's hip while the other slides up to cup the hand holding the bowling ball. There's a moment where they stand like that, not moving, and Dean very carefully does not breathe—he can't, really. Castiel eventually moves for him, hooking his chin on Dean's shoulder as he swings his arm back and keeps Dean's wrist straight while the ball goes soaring down the lane. Dean's breath escapes him in one great _whoosh_ as all the pins fall, but he honestly couldn't give two shits about scoring right now. 

Castiel squeezes his hip and backs away like nothing is amiss, and Dean croaks, "Thanks." 

"You're welcome," Castiel says, beaming. 

"You're gonna have to do that again," Dean blurts out, clearing his throat. "I mean, for the rest of the game. Just—if I'm ever gonna score points." 

"Oh," Castiel muses, smiling wide again, "am I?" 

Dean bobs his head. "Yep, hundred percent, definitely. It's all on you, man." 

Castiel's eyes dance with amusement as he playfully murmurs, "If you say so." 

For the rest of their last game, Castiel joins him at the lane, melding their bodies together to make sure Dean gets a strike every time. And Dean learns very quickly that losing doesn't always mean he can't win in the end. 

* * *

Dean tries to play it cool when they get back into the motel room, he really does. He's all smiles and casual jabbering, doing his best to act like he's not obsessing over what _might_ happen if he could just get his hands on Castiel right this very second. He actually thinks he manages just fine. 

Castiel, however, has no idea what subtlety is. 

Dean gets maybe two steps into the room before a strong grip is whirling him around and a mouth is landing on his to shut him up, and that's just fucking fine, actually. Castiel grips his sides, hands sliding around Dean's back to pull him closer, diving into the kiss like it's all he's ever wanted. Dean is pretty much swept up in the intensity of it immediately. 

Dean breaks away to suck in a sharp breath and get his hands up into that fucking hair like he's been aching to do since he's opened his eyes, fingers clenching around the soft strands to tug lightly. He presses forward and kisses Castiel again, eyes sinking closed as their lips catch and glide together so fucking wonderfully that he could cry. Castiel licks shamelessly into his mouth, and Dean's so fucking _pleased_ with that. He hears himself moan, though he doesn't remember his brain issuing that command, but it earns a sharp nip to his bottom lip, so he repeats the sound almost immediately. 

Dean's ninety-nine percent sure that they've done this before. They've had to because it feels so fucking _normal,_ like their bodies know exactly what to do. It's like they're perfectly crafted to each other, the exact creation of desire for the other. Everything about Castiel, from the ferocity in his kiss to the near-painful grip of his hands, makes Dean's entire body feel like a live wire. He's thrumming with energy, curling into the kiss and Castiel's body like he'd prefer to disappear into him, and he thinks that you don't have to know every single thing about a person to know that you crave them. Or, not in his case, at least. 

"We should—" Dean has to pause to catch his breath as Castiel latches onto his neck, just below his ear, sucking and biting at the skin with a hunger he's never shown for anything before. "Oh, okay, yes. That's—Cas, we need the bed." 

"Yes," Castiel agrees, his voice so rough now that Dean's struggling not to moan at just _that._ Jesus, it's like arousal has cut into his vocal cords. 

Castiel suddenly seems a lot more interested in getting Dean undressed as he walks him back the short distance to the bed, tugging his t-shirt over his head and snatching at the button of his jeans. Dean's more than eager to help, scrambling to get naked as quickly as possible, hoping to see Castiel undressed immediately after. The process is a little skewed because Castiel seems torn between revealing more of Dean and exploring what's already on display, his cool fingers drifting over heated skin, eyes fixated on the paths they create. 

"Clothes, clothes, _clothes,"_ Dean hisses urgently, smacking Castiel's hands away and gesturing at his own overdressed state. 

Castiel huffs, but obliges. He's a lot smoother than Dean, his movements betraying finesse as he pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion, and Dean bites his bottom lip at the sight. Jesus Christ, Castiel is really fucking _hot._ Dean falters in tugging his jeans down the rest of the way, eyes taking in the smooth planes of Castiel's tan skin, imagining biting into those hips, licking his way down to his—

"Dean," Castiel rumbles, nodding pointedly to Dean's frozen state. 

"Right," Dean blurts, blinking rapidly and shoving his jeans down as Castiel works on his own. 

Once they're both fully naked and coming close together like magnets, Castiel kisses him again. His hands run over Dean's face, down his neck, over his shoulders, down his arms, back up to drag down his chest, settling on his hips. Dean's hands itch to do the same, so he does. Something in his chest loosens at being able to touch him wherever and however, like he's finally found what he's been yearning for. It's not nearly enough, but it's a damn good start. 

Dean wonders how many times he's touched this man, how many places he's kissed, how many bruises he's sucked into his skin. There's something magical about getting to do it all over again, something inherently special about learning to map out someone's body he must know like his own, learning how best to treasure each inch. People who are in love say they fall in love with their partner all over again every single day, but Dean doesn't think they've ever gotten an opportunity like this. 

They stumble to bed, breaking apart to look at each and pant like they've done something requiring exertion. Castiel reaches up to press a featherlight touch to Dean's cheek, simply _looking_ at him, and Dean's pretty sure his heart stops in his chest. 

"What do you want?" Castiel asks softly. 

Dean licks his lips. "Everything. Anything. I don't care, I just—I want you." 

"Okay," Castiel says simply, falling back onto the bed with a small smile. "All yours." 

"Oh," Dean breathes out, kneeling beside Castiel's body, mouth going dry. "Hell _yes."_

Dean feels—he doesn't even _know._ Something is happening to him, something he can't really understand, a rioting in his chest. The moment is so brittle and _important,_ and Dean has no idea what his middle name is, but he knows—he just _knows—_ that this means more than he'll ever be able to wrap his mind around. It's everything, absolutely _everything._

He starts at Castiel's knees because he's shifted to sit between his legs. He leans down to kiss the inside of them, smiling when Castiel's legs twitch at the contact. After, he peppers kisses and nips up the inside of his each thigh, bypassing his bobbing dick despite how his mouth waters at the very sight of it. He bites at the V of Castiel's hips, licking into the groove of them, humming when Castiel squirms slightly like maybe he really likes it. He takes his time kissing and sucking his way up Castiel's chest, licking over each nipple, dragging hot breath over his neck and sucking harshly at his jaw. Castiel's chest expands beneath his quickly, his dick pressing into Dean's hip, hard and heavy and hot. 

Castiel likes kissing, Dean learns. It makes him louder, makes him release noises he doesn't let go of easily. He leans into it and gets lost in it, arching up and drawing Dean in as easily as he breathes. Dean could do this all day, wants to, and will someday, but for now, he has other things in mind. Pulling away from Castiel's lips, Dean drags himself back down his body, kissing and licking and biting his way back to the previously ignored part that Castiel must be aching to have his attention on. 

Castiel picks his head up and blinks down at Dean curiously. "Are you going to—" 

"Yeah," Dean answers before he can even finish the question, licking his lips. "I mean, I have no idea if I have before, but I'm gonna do my best." 

Castiel breathes slowly and carefully lowers his head back to the pillow, fingers twisting into the covers. Dean's confidence skyrockets at the response, soothed by how Castiel seems completely taken with the mere idea of it. Without allowing any uncertainty to hinder the process, Dean dips down and sucks Castiel's dick into his mouth before he can think twice about it. 

Sucking dick, Dean learns, is not that hard, so maybe he's done it before after all. He doubts he's an expert, but he thinks he manages to do okay. It's a strange sensation, like his mouth isn't sure what to do, but he's a quick learner, too. He gets used to the heavy length in his mouth, adjusting to the heady saltiness of Castiel's most intimate parts, and he eventually finds his rhythm. He can't swallow all of Castiel's length, but that's okay because Castiel seems to like it best when he sucks hard and fast on the head. 

Castiel, for his part, loses grip on his control rather quickly. Whatever held him back from moaning and jerking before is obliterated by Dean's mouth, and the sheer amount of power Dean feels from his response is downright dangerous. He wants to do this every fucking day, make Castiel fall apart and come undone with his mouth, cherish the utterly gorgeous sound of his moans. 

"Dean, _Dean,"_ Castiel chokes, reaching down to grasp at Dean's short hair, frantically pulling on it as his hips jerk up wildly. 

Dean knows what's coming, but he's still not prepared for it. He goes completely still, doing his best to relax as Castiel holds his head and fucks up into his mouth, knocking into the back of his throat. He can't really breathe and tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but Castiel is making the most delightful little mewls of pleasure, like he's gone out of his own mind, a little insane and untamed with pleasure. Dean realizes that he _likes_ it, likes how Castiel is holding him still and fucking his face like he can't help it, likes the strain he feels in his throat and how there's tears running down his cheeks. It's strangely blissful to be used like this, and Dean adds _kinky_ to the list of things he's learning about himself. 

Then, with two jerks of his hips, Castiel is spilling into Dean's mouth with a hoarse shout that sounds like an entirely different language, a mashup of vowels and nonsense that Dean knows means absolutely nothing but how good Castiel feels. 

Castiel goes pliant and soft as he droops back into the pillows, chest heaving, and Dean forces himself to swallow the salty release on the back of his tongue. The taste makes him wrinkle his nose as he gingerly pulls off Castiel, smacking his lips, but the blissed out look on his face makes Dean smile. 

"Good?" Dean asks, because he likes validation as much as anyone. 

Castiel cracks open one eye. "Dean, that was much better than _good._ That was…" 

"Heh, you're _speechless,"_ Dean teases, lips breaking into a grin, pride exploding in his chest. 

Castiel's other eye opens, then he looks down at Dean's dick in open consideration, like he's wondering what to do with it. Dean's just about to tell him that he doesn't _have_ to do anything when Castiel reaches out and tugs him down so quickly that Dean lets out a small yelp. Shakily, Castiel pops up and shifts so he can lay along Dean's side, his head draped on Dean's shoulder. 

"Your turn," Castiel says. 

Dean holds his breath. 

Castiel touches him absolutely _everywhere_ he can reach, one hand brushing the softest of touches over Dean's skin. Slowly, achingly slow, he adds pressure in specific spots—around Dean's neck, near his hips. He comes out of left field when he pinches one of Dean's nipples, much harder than he's touched any part of him, but not too hard. Dean jerks and releases a shaky breath, eyes widening as he stares down at the top of Castiel's head. He can't see what Castiel is doing and the anticipation only adds to just how turned on he is at the moment. 

Castiel keeps right on touching him, going lower in increments, circulating back to pinch Dean's nipple or squeeze his hip or apply pressure to the side of his throat. Just when Dean's beginning to relax, Castiel adds more pressure, hiking up the tension in Dean's body like turning up a dial. Dean's so hard that he's worried he'll come as soon as Castiel touches him. 

Thankfully, he doesn't. When Castiel abruptly licks his own hand and reaches down to take Dean into his slick palm, it's a very close thing, but Dean does not make a fool of himself. Castiel leans up on his elbow so he can keep pinching his nipples, pressing against his throat, and squeezing his hip hard enough to bruise while also stroking his dick. 

Dean groans low in his throat when Castiel picks up his pace, pinches and presses and squeezes harder. He can feel the intensity rising, and his skin is so fucking _hot_ as Castiel pushes him closer and closer to the edge. He has no reservations about moaning or squirming or jerking his hips, and Castiel makes sure to hold him in place and shush him, which might have a little to do with why he likes doing it so much. Being manhandled never felt so good. 

Just as Dean's on the brink, his balls drawing up, a shudder starting beneath his skin...Castiel stops. 

Dean whines as his eyes snap open. "What the fuck?" 

Castiel leans up to kiss him, swallowing his complaints, his hand touching him gently again. He pulls away to look at Dean, and with a glint of—of _something_ in his eyes, he starts the process all over again, letting the build up happen once more. Dean would complain or demand he just get on with it already if he wasn't savoring every moment. It just feels so fucking _good._ He can't really comprehend why it's so sexy to be pushed to the edge over and over, but Dean's loving every moment of it. 

Slowly, Castiel strokes him while pinching and pushing and squeezing, and Dean sort of gets lost to the sensation. He fools himself into thinking that Castiel will let him orgasm this time, and then he doesn't. Again and again, he just...doesn't. 

The pleasure stretches and goes on until Dean's not really sure what he's saying. He knows he's gasping out words because Castiel keeps shushing him, leaning up to lick the words out of his mouth, humming when he whimpers. He must be begging, and who wouldn't? But he finds that he doesn't mind; in fact, that only makes things _hotter._

It reaches a point that Dean _knows_ he's begging, very conscious of the mindless spiel falling from his mouth as he chokes out, "Cas, please. Can I just—Cas, oh fuck, _Cas,_ please, oh my fucking—" 

And past that point, Dean knows nothing but sensation. He is distantly aware that this is not at all what he was expecting when he fell into bed with Castiel, but he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. This is the best possible outcome, that Castiel would enjoy wringing as much pleasure from him as he can. And he _does,_ just brings him to the edge over and over like it's his true calling. 

Dean suddenly doesn't think he can last much longer. He's so fucking sensitive that his whole body feels like an erogenous zone. Everywhere Castiel touches him makes him feel close to coming, and that's just—that's kinda sad, really. He hasn't been this turned on since… Well, he can't remember, but still. He doesn't think he'll be able to handle it when Castiel does let him find release. 

That turns out to be true. 

When Castiel deems it time, not much later than when Dean tells him he can't take much more, he scoots down and stops touching Dean's dick, which Dean bemoans instantly. Then, without preamble, Castiel leans over him and swallows his dick down with one easy glide, the tip of Dean's dick hitting the back of his throat, and that's it. 

Dean comes so hard that his whole body curls in on itself and twitches like a fish out of water. Castiel swallows all the while, which just makes Dean cry out helplessly as he continues to spill into Castiel's mouth. He's masturbated so many times in the shower at this point and not _once_ has he come this much or with this amount of pleasure. It absolutely drains him because as soon as he's done, he flops back onto the bed and closes his eyes as tremors run intermittently through his body. 

"Good?" Castiel asks in amusement. 

Dean grunts and instantly falls asleep. 

  
  


* * *

When Dean wakes, he feels thoroughly abused in the best way. He groans as he stretches like a cat, his limbs shaking before settling. He smacks his lips and cracks open his eyes, yawning. 

"You never answered my question." 

Dean turns his head and grins lazily, catching sight of a very naked Castiel watching him in amusement, holding out a glass of water. "What question?" 

"I asked you if it was good," Castiel tells him. 

Dean snorts and sits up, taking the glass of water and gulping it down. Jesus, he's so _thirsty._ Once he's done, he looks at Castiel with a faint smile. "Dude, you put my ass to _sleep._ What do you think?" 

"I think you were very tired." 

"Hell yeah, I was. You wore me _out._ I don't know why, but I did _not_ expect that." 

Castiel smiles slightly. "A good surprise, I hope." 

"A great one," Dean confirms, flicking his gaze over Castiel's face. "You can do that to me anytime. If we get our memories back and we find out that we've only been having boring sex, feel free to rock my world. Turns out I like shit like that." 

"What if we get our memories back and we haven't been having sex at all?" Castiel asks. 

"Then we're stupid," Dean says simply, leaning over to punctuate his words with a brief kiss. 

Castiel leans into it, sighing pleasantly, eventually smiling and ducking his head. Dean chuckles at the little slice of joy on Castiel's face, his heart warmed by the simplicity in this moment. He wants to hold onto it, wants to capture it and revisit it when things don't really make sense. 

"You make everything sound so easy," Castiel murmurs, looking up at Dean through his lashes. 

Dean clicks his tongue. "Things would be if we weren't being chased by Sam the Serial Killer. If we didn't have that to worry about, I'd just suggest we find somewhere to settle down, get jobs, make a life for ourselves. Who needs memories anyway?" 

"You're awfully chipper about the subject." 

"Yeah, well, you try to be anything else when you've came as hard as I did." 

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Unfortunately, things aren't that simple. We need to figure out what we should do. You were right when you said we couldn't keep living like this, Dean." 

"Buzzkill," Dean mumbles, frowning. "Alright, so what do you suggest? We can't just...stop _running._ The only way we can be sure that we're out of danger is if Sam's not in the picture." 

"Precisely," Castiel replies calmly. 

Dean's eyes widen. "Are you— Cas! You can't seriously be suggesting we—we _kill_ him," he blurts out, something inside him protesting that mere idea violently. 

"No, no," Castiel says quickly, frowning, "nothing like that. But he's bad, isn't he? Perhaps we could help send him to jail?" 

"Well...that's not as bad," Dean murmurs, biting his bottom lip. "What, we frame him?" 

"How hard can it be?" Castiel asks. 

Dean sighs. "Probably a lot harder than we think, but it's worth a shot." 

Castiel nods. "Good. We have an hour before we need to check out. Showers, then off to find breakfast. We can plan what to do next." 

"Yeah, I can get behind that. Dibs on the shower." 

"Or...we could share." 

"Cas," Dean says calmly, "you're a fucking _genius."_

They scramble over each other to get to the shower, laughing and shoving at each other until they stumble under the hot spray of water. Kissing tenderly, they wash each other's backs and laugh into each other's skin and moan as they get each other off, and Dean knows without a doubt that he wants to do this for the rest of his life. He's beginning not to care what memories he's lost, too pleased with the one's he's making to dwell on them. 

After, they get dressed and spend their last few minutes bickering over how the other packs their things, just like they always do. Castiel doesn't like how Dean throws everything in haphazardly, and Dean doesn't like how Castiel rolls their clothes rather than folding them. It's normal and peaceful, and Dean knows they're both grinning when the other isn't watching, and that's just as well. 

Everything is just...really perfect. 

And then, just as he's thinking that, he opens the door and comes face-to-face with none other than long-haired Sam the Serial killer. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you don't come in here," Dean threatens, pausing for the words to hold more impact, "Cas here is going to shoot you. Aren't you, Cas?" 
> 
> There's another pause, then Castiel mutters, "Apparently so. Sam, do come in." 

Dean reacts before thinking, lashing out to smash his fist into Sam's annoyed expression. The punch lands off center because Dean doesn't realize how freakishly _tall_ Sam is until it's too late, and his hand immediately screams in protest as soon as he tugs it back. He clutches the injured hand to his chest and sucks in a sharp breath as his mind races with what the fuck to do next. 

Sam, a truly tall man, holds his jaw and turns to scowl at him. "Dean, what the _fuck?"_

There's a click and Dean sees the barrel of a gun slide into his field of vision just as Castiel steps up behind him. Voice like steel, Castiel says, "Back away right _now."_

Sam's eyes widen and his hands go up. "Cas? Dude, what the fuck are you—" 

"Back up!" Castiel shouts, just the slightest hint of hysteria in his tone. "I _won't_ tell you again." 

"I'd listen to him if I were you," Dean grits out, flexing his hand and grimacing at the throb setting up shop in his knuckles. 

"Okay, okay," Sam says, his voice softening as he takes a measured step back. He swallows and looks between them in blatant confusion. "I'm not really sure what's going on, but Dean, this isn't—" 

"Shut up," Dean snaps, inching back so he can shift to Castiel's side. "This is what's going to happen. You're going to walk into this room and shut the door, do you understand?" 

"Dean," Castiel says cautiously. 

Dean doesn't look away from Sam. "Cas, now is _not_ the time, okay? Just—just focus on him." 

"Okay, look, I'm not coming in there until I understand what's going on." Sam's face softens slowly, his body almost seeming to shrink as he abruptly looks nothing like a threat. "I just want to help, that's all." 

"If you _don't_ come in here," Dean threatens, pausing for the words to hold more impact, "Cas here is going to shoot you. Aren't you, Cas?" 

There's another pause, then Castiel mutters, "Apparently so. Sam, do come in." 

Sam looks like he wants to protest, but he falls silent as another voice sounds out. "Sam," a woman calls, far too close for Dean's comfort, "what are you—" 

A woman abruptly appears at Sam's side, words halting as she takes in the scene before her. Her brown hair falls into her eyes as her head whips around to gape up at Sam like she can't believe there's a gun trained on him at the moment. Sam looks at her helplessly and shrugs. 

"Hands up," Dean tells her sharply. 

The woman does not react. 

"Dean," Sam says gently, "she can't hear you. Eileen is deaf, you _know_ this." 

"Dean," Castiel says again, carefully this time. 

"Just—just let me think," Dean growls, scowling as he flicks his gaze between Sam and the woman—Eileen. 

"What is going on?" Eileen asks, turning back to look at Dean and Castiel in open confusion. 

"Fuck, I—I don't know," Dean mutters, turning to look at Castiel in confusion. "What do we—Cas, I don't know what to do." 

Castiel takes a deep breath and stares at Sam, lips tipping down. "When you look at him, what do you feel?" he asks softly. 

Dean swallows and focuses back on Sam, who looks like he _really_ wants to say something but is refraining. Dean considers him, a knot tying tight in his chest. There's _something._ He's not sure what, but he knows it's important. It feels like—like family, somehow. It doesn't make sense. 

"Okay, but he still wants to _kill_ us," Dean hisses. 

Sam's eyes go wide. "What? What, _no,_ no I do not. I don't know who told you that, or why you even believe them, but I'd _never_ do—" 

_"You_ told us that," Castiel snaps. "I told us that. There were messages on our phone saying that meeting up with you would be a trap. The last text you sent Dean was a threat to our lives." 

"Wait, what?" Sam blinks and shares a look with Eileen, looking so _lost._ "Meeting up with me was a trap because that wasn't _me._ It was a witch, you both know this. And—and I said I was gonna kill you because you both left when I told you not to!" 

"So you admit to wanting to kill us?" Dean challenges, tilting his chin up. 

Sam huffs. "Well, yes, but no. It was, like, in _jest,_ dude. Why would I want to kill you, Dean? You're my _brother,_ you idiot. And Cas is my best friend!" 

Dean goes very still. "Brother?" he echoes slowly, looking at Castiel with wide eyes. 

"Wait, you don't—" Sam's hands drop as he swallows thickly, genuine concern crossing his face as he looks between them. "You don't know who I am, do you?" 

Eileen straightens up. "The witch, she must have—" 

"Memory spell of some sort," Sam mumbles, watching Dean with a frown. 

"I fucking _knew_ we were in a cult," Dean says fiercely, looking at Castiel in triumph. "Hey, Sam, are we serial killers, by chance?" 

"You cannot _seriously_ be trying to win an argument right now," Castiel growls, dropping the hand holding the gun to glare at Dean. 

Dean raises both eyebrows. "Dude, it's like you don't even know me. Are we, Sam?" 

"We're… It's complicated," Sam says delicately, wincing slightly. 

"That sounds like a yes to me," Dean says in victory, only for his smile to fall. "Oh god, that's a _yes._ Jesus Christ, we're actually—" 

"Not—not really," Sam interrupts, waving a hand and clearing his throat. "Look, I know you two don't really trust me right now, and that's fair. But I _am_ your brother." 

Dean frowns and jerks his chin at Eileen. "And who is she? My sister-in-law?" 

Sam's face turns bright red. "I—I mean, that's not really… Jesus, you don't even have your memories and you're still the _worst."_

Dean waggles his eyebrows at Eileen, who's also blushing but grinning all the while. "He didn't put a ring on it yet?" 

"Not quite," Eileen replies. 

"You said you wanted to help us," Castiel speaks up, his words firm. "Can you?" 

Sam nods, his expression gentle again. "Yeah, Cas, I can. I'll get you your memories back, but you're just gonna have to trust me." 

"How?" Dean asks, narrowing his eyes at Sam, assessing him for any lies. 

"You can thank Rowena," Sam says with a smile tinged with just the slightest pain. "You also knew her. She's—she's gone now, but she left a spell book. I know just the thing." 

"Dean?" Castiel asks. 

"Up to you," Dean replies. 

Castiel sighs. "Why is it _always_ up to me?" 

"Because I get the idea you're the most level-headed out of the two of us, that's why," Dean snips. 

"He's not wrong," Sam agrees. 

"We can leave," Castiel murmurs, and Sam tenses like the mere idea is the worst possible one. 

Dean clears his throat. "We can…" 

"But you don't want to," Castiel says. 

Dean turns to look at him, taking in his expression. Castiel still holds the gun, a patient look on his face, and there's no judgement there. Dean wants to shut the door and take a moment to just _breathe,_ to talk to Castiel and find out what he wants. 

The truth is...Castiel's right. Dean doesn't want to leave. There's something about Sam that Dean can't help but feel drawn towards. A familial bond that makes sense if they really are brothers, and the more that Dean thinks about it, the more it bothers him to consider just leaving him behind. That same need to protect Castiel is deep ingrained within him when he looks at Sam, even more potent than when he looks at Castiel, a thing he'd considered impossible. He gets the feeling that family—that _Sam,_ specifically—is more important to him than most anything else, possibly even Castiel, which doesn't feel fair. 

Dean swallows. "If you want to go, we'll disappear and never look back, but Cas…" 

Castiel frowns at him. "I don't want to go. Sam is… He feels important to me. He's—" 

"—family," Dean murmurs. 

"Yes," Castiel says with a soft smile, "that." 

"I'm so confused," Eileen mutters. 

Dean snorts and turns to look at her. "Welcome to my world for the past week and a half." 

"We'll come with you," Castiel says, nodding at Sam with a considering look. "You'll explain things on the way, won't you?" 

Sam releases a deep sigh. "To be honest, I'd really rather not. It's—it's a lot. Too much, honestly. And it's just better if you remember for yourself. As soon as we get back to the bunker, I'll fix this." 

"The bunker?" Dean echoes curiously. 

"Where we live," Sam says. 

Castiel hums. "All of us?" 

"Well, Eileen hasn't officially moved in or anything, but she's—uh, she's staying for now." Sam clears his throat and blushes deeply again while Eileen stares straight forward, none the wiser. 

Dean tosses Castiel a grin. "Well, we might as well get this show on the road. Why don't _we_ explain what we've been doing on the way?" 

"Everything?" Castiel asks, arching an eyebrow. 

"Most things," Dean says with a wink. 

"Whatever," Sam tells them, "let's just _go."_

  
  


* * *

The bunker turns out to be aptly named. 

It's an industrial, underground shelter with a rattling iron staircase connecting to a wrap-around balcony. In the entryway, there's a table with a map on it that glows faintly. That's about as far as the expectations Dean has had gets met, because everything else is wildly different from what he's been imagining. 

Sam and Eileen lead them further in, talking and signing quietly between them, but Dean's too stunned by the bunker to really try to parse out what they're discussing. There's a lived-in feeling to the place, more books than he's prepared for, and possibly the coolest trinkets Dean's ever seen—or remembers seeing. Dean runs his hand over the table that Sam sits himself at, eyeing the initials carved into the wood—DW, SW, and MW—before sharing a look with Castiel. 

"Who's MW?" Dean asks, lightly tracing the initials and watching Sam carefully. 

Sam's head snaps up, the skin beside his eyes tightening as he swallows. "That's—she's our mom. Mary Winchester. She's—she passed away." 

"Oh," Dean murmurs, clearing his throat. 

Castiel steps forward. "How will you restore our memories and how long will it take?" 

"There's a spellbook that Rowena left to me before she died," Sam explains. "I'll need to get all the ingredients and do some research, but she was the best witch we knew. It _will_ work. Give me three hours, max, and I'll be able to fix you." 

"Can we help?" Castiel asks awkwardly, casting his gaze around in genuine wariness.

Sam chuckles. "Not without knowing all the stuff you've both forgotten. I'll figure it out." 

"I'll help," Eileen says, reaching out to squeeze Sam's shoulder and smile at him. 

"Well, personally, I'm starving," Dean says easily, clapping his hands together with a broad smile. Sam's face softens. "Where's the kitchen?" 

"Same ol' Dean," Sam murmurs, a note of relief in his voice. "Kitchen is just through there. And down that hall is your room. Third door on the left." 

Dean perks up. "Don't mind if I do. Promise I won't touch anything." 

Sam's eyebrows raise in doubt, which means Dean is just a troublemaker at heart and hasn't picked up that trait recently. For some reason, he's relieved by that. With a grin, Dean reaches out and snags Castiel's arm, tugging him in the direction of the kitchen, waving half-heartedly over his shoulder to Sam and Eileen. 

It's not that Dean doesn't _like_ them, he actually does. They invoke something tender in his chest, something warm and hopeful, Sam specifically. But he doesn't _know_ them, and no matter what feelings are ingrained into his soul or whatever, he can't force himself to trust them. He's been with Castiel for the last week and a half, not them, so it's Castiel he feels most at ease with. 

As they enter the kitchen, Dean releases a deep sigh and looks around, dropping Castiel's wrist as he takes in the amount of things he has to work with. Curious, he goes poking around the cabinets and the fridge, perusing the different options. There's a lot you can tell about a person, or a family, by the contents of their kitchen. 

"No, thank you," Castiel says when Dean offers him a beer, shaking his head. 

Dean shrugs and pops the cap, relaxing into the hiss of air and pausing to take a gulp. It's good, so he must like the brand, and it's fairly easy to swallow some more down as he looks through the freezer. He wrinkles his nose at the variety of healthy-oriented food, already knowing he's not very inclined to that. Or he _hopes_ he isn't, because he's gonna be pissed when he wakes up and realizes that he's screwed up whatever health-kick he's been on, if he has been. 

"Someone here is a health-freak," Dean tells Castiel, pulling down a bag of falafel mix from a cabinet and shaking it with a grimace. "Dude, there's _falafel_ here." 

"I doubt it's you," Castiel assures him. 

Dean tosses him a smile as he puts the falafel back and pulls down a box of cereal. "God, I hope not. Want some cereal?" 

"I'm not hungry." Castiel doesn't even look apologetic anymore, but he saves himself from Dean's oncoming tirade about his eating habits and lack thereof by hunting down a bowl for Dean to eat out of. 

Dean grabs the milk and puts the half-empty beer in the fridge, deciding a bowl of cereal is the proper snack for the occasion. They're tiny cookies, the _perfect_ meal before memory restoration. 

"You worried?" Dean lifts his free hand and circles a finger near his head as he shakes out the last little bit of cereal into a bowl. "About getting our memories back, I mean." 

"No, not at all. I'm actually…" Castiel trails off and squints, wearing the expression he does when he's working out what he's feeling. "I'm looking forward to it. I want to know who I am. Who you are." 

Dean nods and puts the milk back after pouring enough, tossing the empty box of Cookie Crisps, searching for a spoon. When he locates one, he moves back to the bowl and curls it close to his chest, pushing the cereal beneath the milk. Castiel watches in that faintly curious way he does when something utterly normal interests him. Dean takes his first bite and smiles as he chews, making Castiel roll his eyes. 

"Yeah, man, I can't wait to figure out what the fuck my life is like," Dean admits between bites, waggling the spoon at Castiel. "Sam sure as hell was being cryptic about it. If we ain't serial killers, then what the hell are we? Can't be _that_ complicated." 

"Perhaps it's just hard to explain," Castiel suggests, pursing his lips. "I can't imagine being in his position, needing to tell someone about their life when they have no recollection of it." 

Dean snorts as he swallows another bite, the spoon scraping against the bowl. "Yeah, that's fair. But hey, won't be an issue much longer. We'll remember soon, according to him. I wanna be worried about all the witchcraft shit he was talkin' about, but I already guessed we were in some kind of cult." 

"I wonder who Rowena was," Castiel says, his eyebrows dropping as Dean offers him a bite. "No, Dean, I don't want any. I already told you I'm not—" 

Dean jabs the spoon at him more insistently, poking his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. "Oh, come on, Cas. Just one bite. You haven't eaten anything since the bowling alley. Please? For me?" 

Castiel scowls, but he does eventually give in and lean forward to take a large bite, chewing with a glare on his face. It's unfairly cute, and Dean smirks in triumph. He gets the impression that Castiel gives into his wants a lot. 

"Hurry up, I want to explore," Castiel snaps, crossing his arms in his grumpy version of a pout. 

Dean rolls his eyes, but does as he's asked. There's not much room for talking as he shovels the cereal in his mouth over and over, watching Castiel walk around the room and look at things curiously. He's picking up the magazine on the table in the room when Sam abruptly sticks his head in the doorway. 

"Hey, Dean, do you—" Sam stops, his eyes landing on Dean's cereal bowl, all the emotion draining from his face far too quickly. 

Dean quits eating immediately, freezing in place, his stomach clenching as all the color drains from Sam's face. "Uh, what did I do?" 

Sam swallows and blinks hard, fully stepping into the room. "Nothing. You didn't know. It's—it's fine." 

"Is it your cereal?" Dean awkwardly sits the bowl down on the counter and clears his throat. "Dude, I'm sorry. I'll—I mean, I can buy you some more?" 

"It's not mine." Sam's lips tighten as he looks away, jaw clenching as he sees the empty box in the trash. Wordlessly, he pulls the box out, which is a damn weird thing to do. Softly, he says, "It was Jack's." 

"Who's Jack?" Castiel asks. 

Sam flinches like he's been slapped. "He is—he _was_ our kid," he croaks, thumbs stroking the box before gently sitting it back in the cabinet. 

"Woah," Dean mutters, looking over at Castiel in open alarm, "we had a kid?" 

"Yeah, it's...complicated." Sam grimaces and shuts the cabinet, taking a deep breath. "You'll understand when you remember. But that's not what I came in here to talk to you about. I was going to ask, when you two found those twins, was there a bowl surrounded by candles anywhere in the room?" 

Dean blinks, trying to bounce back from the knowledge that he has— _had_ —a kid. He clears his throat and looks at Castiel. "I mean, there was a lot of shit in there that was...weird. Books, blood, and these crystal things. I dunno." 

"There was no bowl, but there was a circle of lit candles," Castiel answers calmly. 

Sam purses his lips and sighs. "Okay, well, that helps a little. Thanks." 

"Hey," Dean calls out as Sam turns back to the door, waiting for him to pivot and look back. Dean twists his fingers in the bottom of his shirt, shifting from foot-to-foot. "Listen, I really am sorry about the cereal. I had no idea, and I just—" 

"Dean, it's fine," Sam interrupts, offering him a shaky smile. "Don't worry about it. And when you remember, don't blame yourself. It's okay." 

Dean doesn't really know what to say to that, so he simply nods. Sam gives him another smile that looks a little forced before he walks back out the kitchen, apparently focused back on his task. Carefully, Dean looks at the bowl of cereal and his appetite vanishes. Jesus, he can't finish it _now._

Without saying a word, he picks up the bowls and dumps it, feeling like shit. He inadvertently ate his own kid's cereal, a kid who is apparently dead. 

"Can't believe we were parents," Dean mumbles as he lets the bowl drop into the sink with a dull thud. 

Castiel hums. "Are. We _are_ parents. Even if this _Jack_ is gone, I don't believe the title goes away." 

"True," Dean agrees, turning around to watch Castiel slowly approach him. "Man, I think I screwed up big time. What are the odds of me eating the one thing in this place that will leave an emotional toll?" 

"It's not your fault," Castiel tells him gently, the soft rumble of his voice a coaxing reassurance. He steps up to Dean, reaching out to hesitantly touch his hips, looking into his eyes. "You meant no harm by it." 

Dean bites his lower lip and nods, reaching out to hook his fingers into Castiel's belt loops, drawing him in. Their bodies fit together, leaning into each other, and Dean rests his forehead against Castiel's. It's strange to mourn someone he's never even met, but he's not heartless enough not to recognize the gravity of the situation. He doesn't need memories to know they all must have been torn up at the loss of their child, as anyone sane would be. 

Castiel's hand comes up to cradle his cheek, thumb stroking underneath his eye. Dean leans into the contact, eyes sinking closed. It helps him feel less like he's screwed up so much. At the very least, Castiel doesn't blame him. 

Well, he doesn't blame him... _now._

Dean goes very still as he imagines a scenario in which they'll get their memories back and Castiel will hate him for accidentally eating their son's cereal. He doesn't think Castiel will do that, not really, but like everything else that they have to deal with, he can't be sure. That's the crux of all his anxiety. He can't be sure of _anything._ He has no way to know if he's screwed up somewhere else along this journey without memories and how that will affect him when he finally remembers. 

"Cas," Dean breathes, pulling back to look into those eyes, "I need you to promise me something, okay?" 

Castiel blinks. "I—of course."

"If—no, _when_ we get our memories back, promise me that we'll still be...like this," Dean says carefully, swallowing as Castiel's face softens. "If I did something wrong and you're super pissed about it, try and forgive me, okay?" 

"Dean, I don't think you've done anything warranting my anger," Castiel tells him with a little smile. "You've been nothing but kind and supportive throughout. An annoyance, certainly, but I do believe that's part of the reason I'm drawn to you." 

Dean chuckles. "Alright, I'll take that. But still, just promise me, okay? You know me; I'd find something to worry about in an empty room." 

"I promise, Dean," Castiel vows, scanning his face with those ethereal eyes, lips twitching when Dean grins in relief. 

Castiel leans forward slowly, making his intentions clear, and Dean meets him halfway. He's more than eager to kiss him, especially in this moment. Their lips meet briefly, just a soft brush of mouths, and Dean's worries drift away like a leaf floating along a calm breeze. 

"Thank you," Dean whispers. 

Castiel kisses him harder, reaching up to cradle both cheeks, pressing in to make sure no more words will filter through. Under the firm pressure of Castiel's lips, Dean makes a small sound in the back of his throat and gives in instantly, eyes fluttering shut as he curls closer. It takes almost no time at all for the kiss to turn into something a little heated, a little desperate. Dean's dizzy with it, trying to yank Castiel closer, fully prepared to get naked in this kitchen, Sam and Eileen be damned. 

Castiel, however, brings it to an end when he draws away and sighs. "Just in case," he rasps. 

Dean blinks at him, frowning. "In case of what?" 

"Nothing to worry about." Castiel drops off one more kiss, a simple peck, and then steps back. "We should go see your room." 

Unable to argue with that, Dean reaches over to thread his fingers through Castiel's, pleased by the weight of the contact. There's faint scars on his hands while Castiel's skin is smooth and unblemished, but their hands look at home cradled together. Joined this way, Dean lets Castiel lead them out of the kitchen and towards the hall where Sam had said their room would be. 

Eileen and Sam are still at that table, a variety of books splayed out around them and a metal bowl with what looks like twigs sticking out of the top. Their heads are bent close together, bodies angled towards each other, looking like a unit. Before Dean realizes it's happening, his lips curl up in approval. 

They reach the room shortly, and Castiel doesn't hesitate to open the door, walking in with a purposeful stride. They get two steps in before they both come to a halt. 

"Dude," Dean says, "who needs that many guns?" 

"I'm not sure," Castiel admits, gaze locked onto the wall full of weapons. 

"You know who needs all those weapons?" 

"Don't say it." 

"Serial killers." 

"You said it." 

Dean clicks his tongue. "When we get our memories back and I turn out to be right, I want an apology." 

"Certainly," Castiel allows, dipping his head in acknowledgement. "I doubt you'll be right, but sure." 

"Whatever, let's poke around." Dean rolls his eyes and tugs Castiel towards the closet. 

The room isn't really what Dean's expecting. It's incredibly one-sided. He'd been prepared for shared closet space and a clash of styles, but he supposes that he and Castiel just like the same kind of stuff. The bed confuses him; it's clearly only for one person. Either he and Castiel manage to squeeze together on that, _or_ they don't sleep in the same bed. He can't imagine why they wouldn't, though. 

They find a picture of a pretty blond woman hugging a young boy from behind, both of which strike a great resemblance to Dean. It's not hard to work out that it's a younger version of him and his mother, but it's very weird to look at. He sees where he gets his looks from, why he's so _pretty._ Castiel smiles softly at the picture, Dean rolls his eyes. 

Tucked into the frame, there's a picture of a very young-looking Sam and Dean. There's sunlight on their face, their heads tossed back as they laugh. Sam's hair is short, Dean looks nearly swallowed whole by the brown leather jacket he wears. The picture is older, well-worn, clearly cherished. Dean looks at it for a very long time before they continue around the room to keep snooping.

"Hey, look at this," Castiel murmurs as he opens Dean's bedside drawer. 

"Whatcha got?" Dean asks, swiveling away from the stack of books he's eyeing. 

Castiel passes him a photo. "It's us." 

Sure enough, it is. Dean and Castiel are both leaning against their car, looking at each other. Dean is smiling wide, a beer in his hand, leaning toward Castiel like he's telling a secret. Castiel, on the other hand, looks vaguely confused and there's just the faintest starts of a smile at the corner of his lips. Dean looks a lot younger in the picture, but Castiel doesn't look that much different than he does now. Less laugh lines, wilder hair. He's also wearing that trenchcoat, looking at odds next to Dean, who's wearing that leather jacket still. 

"We look young," Dean comments, lips curling up as he stares at the picture. "We've definitely known each other for a number of years. Where'd you find this? In my nightstand?" 

Castiel nods. "In the back of the Bible." 

Dean's eyebrows crumble together. "Hidden? In a _Bible?_ That's a little weird." 

"Yes, I suppose so," Castiel agrees. 

"Huh. Okay then." Dean passes the picture back over, shrugging cluelessly. "Not much else here." 

Castiel opens his mouth to reply when there's a sudden shout down the hall from Sam, yelling for them to come back in there. They share a look before breaking apart to hurry back in the room. Dean's heart is in his throat as they rush back up the hall, anticipation making his stomach churn. 

"Did you figure it out?" Castiel asks. 

Sam gathers a few books to his chest while Eileen picks up the bowl. "Yeah, quicker than I meant to. Come on, we need to go to the infirmary. Y'all need to get horizontal for the spell." 

Dean has no idea where the fuck the infirmary is, and Castiel is just as lost as him, so they both follow Sam and Eileen further into the bunker. The infirmary isn't that far, thankfully, and Sam starts opening his books while Eileen grabs Castiel and ushers him to a bed. Dean stands in the doorway and swallows as the flurry of activity unfolds before him. 

This is it. This is _really_ it. He's going to remember, finally, and there's a large part of him that's fucking terrified. If his life sucks, if he's actually a serial killer, he's not sure if remembering is the best thing that could happen to him. Yet, he knows that he'll never be able to live without the memories. Now that he knows he can recall everything, he _has_ to. Not knowing would eat him alive, and he knows it. 

Castiel is pushed to a bed by an insistent Eileen, who does her best to answer his questions, and Sam finishes setting up whatever he needs to before approaching Dean with his eyebrows raised. 

"Is it going to hurt?" Dean asks. 

"Probably," Sam says honestly. "Not how you're thinking, though. Everyone wants to forget something, Dean. Getting to and then having to remember isn't always...fun." 

Dean takes a deep breath and nods at Castiel. "He'll be okay though, right? I—I mean, he hasn't really eaten much. That won't affect anything?" 

"He'll be fine." Sam shoots him an odd look and appears to bite back something he wants to say. He sighs heavily. "Don't worry about Cas." 

"Well, I mean, I kinda have to, don't I?" Dean asks, waving his hands carelessly. "Memories or not, you know when you're in love with somebody." 

Sam pauses, his mouth opening before oh so slowly closing. He sighs again, eyes raising to look at the ceiling before he coughs and eyes Dean. "Right," he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Please go lay down so I can get you back to normal." 

"You're _sure_ this is going to work?" Dean checks as he moves to the bed next to Castiel's. 

"Yes, Dean, I'm sure," Sam assures him, pushing him down flat by his shoulders, rolling his eyes. "Just lay back and relax. You'll have your memories back before you know it." 

"Yep!" Eileen chirps with a bright smile. 

Dean shares a quick look with Castiel. "Last chance to call it quits and make a break for it." 

"We'll be fine," Castiel tells him, smiling slightly. 

"Alright," Dean says warily, licking his lips and turning to stare up at the ceiling. Quietly, he adds, "Good luck, Cas." 

"Good luck, Dean," Castiel echoes, possibly for solidarity, probably for Dean's benefit. 

From far off, Sam begins chanting. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean sighs and sits up in his bed, resting his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands. "What the fuck am I doing?" he asks his lap. 

Dean stands in front of the fridge, staring at the half-empty beer on the shelf. It's probably flat now, lacking the fresh taste of a beer that's drank immediately after it's opened. He grabs it anyway, shutting the fridge and taking a gulp, staring at his distorted reflection in the silver-chrome door. 

The bunker is oddly quiet, the only way it can be in the early corners of the morning when no one is awake or moving around. The pipes creak and groan in intervals, but otherwise, there's a stillness to the place, like the bunker itself is asleep. 

Dean finishes his beer. He grabs another one, distantly satisfied with its freshness. 

Turning around, Dean gets two steps before he catches sight of the bowl in the sink. He halts and stares at that for a while. His mind skitters around the memory of eating the last of Jack's cereal—an unspoken rule in the bunker _not_ to break. It's the last thing Jack ever ate before Dean tried to stick him in that box, before he tried to kill him. 

Dean closes his eyes. 

"You're awake." 

The bunker yawns at Sam's entrance into the kitchen, and Dean's eyes snap open. Not for the first time, he wonders how he could have forgotten _Sam._

"Haven't slept," Dean admits, taking another swallow of his beer. 

Sam shuffles over to the fridge to grab a bottle of water, eyeing Dean sympathetically. He's wearing his running shoes. "You need some rest, man. You've had a hell of a couple of weeks." 

"Understatement," Dean mumbles. 

"Cas feeling any better?" Sam asks, leaning his shoulder against the fridge, tossing the water bottle between his hands. 

Dean's teeth clack together as he holds back his knee-jerk reaction, which is to break out into vigorous yelling. Sam doesn't deserve that. He doesn't know. He has no idea about any of it. All he knows is that Castiel woke first from obtaining his memories, gave some bullshit story about feeling sick before fleeing. Hell, maybe it's not bullshit, maybe Castiel does actually feel sick. Dean feels a little sick himself. But Sam doesn't know that, or why, and he _can't_ know. 

"Not sure," Dean says, looking down at his beer and tugging at the corner of the label. "I'm not his keeper. You ask him." 

"He's still in his room. I don't wanna disturb him if he's actually resting." Sam pauses, the silence stretching uncomfortably for a long moment. Then he clears his throat and teases, "Besides, you're the one who's in love with him, right? Isn't it _your_ job to check on him?" 

Dean's stomach lurches at the playful jab. Sam's just joking, just teasing Dean in the only way he can as a little brother. He doesn't realize what those words do to Dean, especially right now. Dean can handle demons and angels and even the Queen of Hell poking at his relationship with Castiel; those are people that can't claim to know him. Sam, on the other hand, is just too much. 

"Sam," Dean says firmly, glancing up to pin a serious look on him, "shut the hell up." 

Sam crinkles the bottle in his hands, uncertainty crossing his face. "Look, you're the one who—" 

"Sam!" Dean explodes, eyes going wide, the beer bottle clanking sharply on the counter top. 

"No, I'm saying this," Sam declares, setting his shoulders and braving on. "You've been weird about Cas since—since Jack died, Dean. Whatever the hell y'alls problem is, now isn't the time to be in a spat, okay? We need to be focused on _God._ None of us have time to—to deal with freaking relationship drama!" 

Dean scowls at him. "Says the one stumbling like a baby calf into a relationship with _Eileen!"_

Sam rears back, blinking rapidly. "First of all, I thought you approved of that." 

"I—I do," Dean says wearily, reaching up to scrub a hand over his forehead, wincing. 

"Second of all," Sam continues, his voice pitching higher awkwardly, "I didn't realize that my relationship with Eileen could be compared to your relationship with Cas." 

"It can't," Dean mutters weakly, dropping his hand. 

"Really? _Really?_ Are you sure?" Sam holds Dean's gaze, expression open and non-judgemental. "'Cause you're the one who said you're in love with him." 

_"I_ didn't say that!" Dean argues, fumbling to grab the beer again, needing something to hold onto. "I wasn't myself, Sam, you _know_ that. None of that was real. None of it." 

"You seemed mostly like yourself," Sam counters. 

"I wasn't," Dean grits out. "I let him drive my car! I was scared of my own gun! I—I—" 

"Dean," Sam says softly when Dean snaps his mouth shut, "I'm just saying that you two need to figure out whatever it is that's causing issues. I don't care what it is, or how you two...end up afterwards, just as long as everything is okay." 

"Nothing is okay right now, you know that," Dean whispers, looking down at the beer in his hands. He's been picking at the label nervously, and it's nearly off all the way. "Cas is the least of my worries at the moment. Just leave it the fuck alone." 

Sam sighs and shakes his head. "Whatever, Dean." 

With that, Sam turns away and leaves the kitchen. Dean listens to the sounds of him exiting the bunker to go on his run, and he rips the label off the bottle fully, grimly tossing the rest of the beer back in three large gulps. He reaches in the fridge for the last three bottles, then he goes back to his room. 

* * *

Dean doesn't know what's worse. Wanting to forget everything that happened with Castiel when he had no memories, or wanting to forget everything else all over again so he can go back to that. 

Sam was right; everyone wants to forget _something._ Dean has a lot of things in his life that he'd like to erase from his memory for good. Maybe not all the tragedies, but most of them. However, he's old enough and been through enough to realize that he wouldn’t know himself without all the trauma. It's a part of who he is, what makes him who he is. Without it, he's just that guy with far too many worries and no idea as to why he's so paranoid. 

Dean doesn't know if it's rude to wish he could erase a lover from his mind. Thing is, Castiel has never been a lover before. Knowing what Castiel looks like in the midst of sex, knowing how he sounds when he moans, knowing the weight of his dick, knowing how fucking _good_ at giving Dean pleasure he is… 

It needs to disappear, just vanish. Dean can't fucking _stand it._

He hates the memories, hates that he can't fucking forget, hates that it happened at all. It's mind-boggling to think that they actually— 

And the worst part? Dean is _fixating._ It's not an obsession, exactly, but his mind continuously loops back to it. Much as he tries not to, he spends nearly every waking moment remembering how his last two weeks has been, how he'd felt throughout, how utterly _sure_ he'd been that he and Castiel were— _are_ in love. Jesus. 

The absolute most horrifying part is how the sex isn't even the star of his fixation. He remembers how Castiel smiled in that bowling alley, how happy he'd been, how he'd laughed like he never has. He remembers standing in the kitchen, melding himself to Castiel, kissing him softly and _loving_ it. Fuck. 

Dean reaches up to press the palms of his hands into his eyes until he can see black spots in his vision. Everything was easier two days ago, but somehow impossibly harder. He thinks back on what all started this, on the case he'd been chomping at the bits for after the flop with Lee. After having to kill someone he used to have a _thing_ with, Dean had just wanted a case where he could stab someone he was sure actually deserved it. 

Instead, he'd been sent on a wild goose chase and bit off more than he could chew. Sam had figured it out, of course, and he'd warned Dean not to go after her alone. But when he'd left, Sam had called him and asked him to meet him where the witch was. Except it hadn't been Sam at all, and Dean was left walking into a trap. One Castiel had followed him right into. 

When Dean gets his hands on that witch, he's going to _seriously_ enjoy ganking her. 

Dean sighs and sits up in his bed, resting his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands. "What the fuck am I doing?" he asks his lap. 

Things are so fucking _complicated._ How the fuck is he supposed to go on like normal? Like he doesn't know how good it feels to be with his best friend? If his best friend is _still_ his best friend. He and Castiel aren't on the best of terms right now, which Dean can admit—only to himself—is mostly his own doing. 

This fight feels different. They've had issues before, falling out over many things amidst the end of the world, but this is… 

Castiel never left, not like this, not with the intentions to actually fucking move on. 

Another thing Dean would like to forget. Standing in the room with Castiel, saying _nothing_ as Castiel basically fucking leaves _him._ Not just leaves, but makes it clear that he's separating from _Dean._ And Dean does nothing to stop him. 

That's another memory Dean wants gone. He'd been so _angry,_ and even more _hurt,_ and he hadn't been able to say anything. He thinks he'd wanted to, thinks he would have tried eventually, but Castiel hadn't waited or stuck around to give him the chance. He was clearly done giving chances, done waiting, and now that Dean thinks about it...he doesn't blame him. It makes sense. Dean ruins everything anyway; it was about time for Castiel to finally be a part of that pattern after so long of avoiding it. 

Before all of this, before losing memories and a bowling date and falling apart in each other's palms, Dean had ached to talk to him. Not to—to make things right, because he doesn't even know if that's possible, if he wants to, but to just _talk._ To have Castiel actually look at him again. To have Castiel be okay in his space again. Fuck everything else, the fighting and the distance and the hatred for absolutely everything burning in Dean's chest, he just wanted—for even one fucking moment—things to feel like they used to. 

But Castiel hadn't been receptive to that _at all,_ the fucking asshole. He refuses to give Dean that reprieve, even for a moment. He won't even touch him when he heals him, for fuck's sake! 

And goddammit, Dean _misses_ him. 

Now, things are even _more_ fucked up, somehow. Dean's not sure if they'll ever be able to look at each other again. Talking? Yeah, he can kiss that dream goodbye. He's well and truly screwed now. 

Things are only going to get worse if he keeps ignoring it. The longer they go without coming to some kind of agreement to act like it never happened, the more they'll avoid each other. And honestly, Dean's had enough of that. The only thing that's going to make _any_ of this easier is actually getting off his ass and facing Castiel. 

Dean groans and squeezes his head between his palms. "This is going to be a disaster." 

His whole life is a disaster, he should be used to this by now. Even still, he's dreading it. 

Castiel has taken to staying in his room indefinitely for the past two days, which is a step up from him being gone from the bunker entirely. At least he hasn't disappeared off the face of the earth yet. If Dean's not careful, that'll be his next move. 

For a long time, Dean stands outside of Castiel's door. There's not a thought in his head, and he just...stands there. He can hear Eileen and Sam laughing quietly from down the hall, in Sam's room, and for one spiteful second, he's envious of that. Mostly, he's happy for them, for _Sam,_ who deserves to have someone who's as good as he is. 

Dean takes a deep breath, raises his hand to knock, then abruptly becomes the chicken shit he never really is as he backs away. He paces the hall, pushing one fist against the opposite palm, then switching. He stops outside Castiel's door, tries again, and ends up repeating the whole process. 

He doesn't know why he's so fucking _nervous._ Except, well, he knows exactly why. He's going to have to look his maybe best friend—who's a fucking _angel,_ by the way—in the eyes, knowing what it's like to be with him so freely and openly. They're going to have to face this, to do something with it, handle at least _some_ of their issues—as Sam put it. Of course he's fucking nervous. 

Dean eventually gives up pacing and stands outside of Castiel's door, willing his fist to just fucking _knock goddammit._ He even glares at his own lax hand, demanding it listen with all his might, and it refuses. It reaches a point that he's getting frustrated with his own limb, like it's a disembodied piece of flesh and nerves sent from Hell to be a thorn in his side. 

"Fucking _fuck,"_ Dean bursts out and slams his palm against Castiel's door.

Immediately after this, he yanks his hand back like it's on fire and stares wide-eyed at the door. His brain is one useless loop of _shitshitshit_ as he listens to the sound of approaching footsteps. Then, just like that, Castiel opens the door with his patented squint of confusion, only for that expression to melt away. 

It's the first time they've seen each other since they laid on seperate beds to get their memories back, and Dean feels like an idiot for thinking he wouldn't instantly recall all the moments they had. It's practically the first thing he thinks, second only to the immediate thought of _shit, has he always been this fucking handsome?_

Well, he knows that's a stupid question. Castiel has always been handsome, devastatingly so—a word he'd used because he's a fucking transparent disaster. No one hates Dean as much as he hates himself. 

Castiel looks at him for a long moment, his face wiped of any emotion, and then he looks away and starts closing the door. 

"Oh, hell no," Dean blurts, smacking his hand out to catch the door and shove his weight against it. Castiel doesn't budge, keeping the door half-closed, and Dean scowls. "Let me in, Cas." 

"I'd rather not, thank you," Castiel replies primly, pushing back against the door. 

Dean locks his knees and twists to shove his body into the small space that Castiel is doing his best to shut the rest of the way. "Well, that's fucking tough. Move over!" he growls, pushing against the doorway and straining against Castiel's strength. 

"Dean?" 

Dean's head whips around to see Sam's head stick out from his own room, Eileen's face peeking around curiously as well. Dean slaps on a fake smile, keeping his elbows straight and holding his ground as Castiel gives another forceful push. 

"Yeah, what's up, Sam?" 

Sam's eyebrows rise. "Everything alright?" 

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Dean grits out, digging his heels in and grunting. "If this _asshole_ would just—" 

"Go _away,_ Dean," Castiel orders in a rough growl. 

"Not gonna happen," Dean argues. 

"Are they alright?" Eileen asks. 

Sam sighs. "Are they ever?" 

"We're fine," Dean calls out, doing his best to flap a hand to suggest they mind their own business while keeping from toppling over. "Really, we're good!" 

"We're not," Castiel says blandly. 

"Seriously, it's all good," Dean insists. "Just—just go back to your canoodling!" 

Dean gives one more harsh shove, sticking his foot against the doorway and _pushing,_ and the door abruptly gives without any warning. He goes careening into the room and nearly faceplants, but manages to catch his footing and rock back into the door, stumbling backwards until it shuts with a deafening click. He catches his breath and clears his throat as he realizes that he's effectively shut himself in the room with Castiel. 

_Great job, Winchester,_ he thinks mockingly, _force yourself into an enclosed space with a guy you'd really like to get naked. Fucking genius!_

Castiel stands in the middle of the room, his arms crossed and his scowl pointed to his shoes, and Dean just _looks_ at him. There's tension in the room so thick that breathing would split it in half, and Dean wracks his mind for _anything_ worthwhile to say. There's too much sitting between them, a whole goddamn ocean to cross, so much _shit_ to wade through. 

Dean wants to kiss him, and he hates that he does.

"What do you want?" Castiel asks sharply. 

"Why are you still here?" Dean blurts out, and that's not _at all_ what he means to say. His mouth is so fucking stupid; he wants to punch it himself. 

Castiel slowly looks up, his expression cold and harsh, eyes narrowed into slits. "You barged in here to tell me to _leave?"_ he hisses, arms falling to his sides, fists balling up. "Don't you think I want nothing more, Dean?! To put as much space between you and I is _all_ I want, but it's not that simple, is it? I _have_ to stay, you ass!" 

"Wait." Dean tries to process that, but it's not making much sense. He frowns. "Why?" 

"I don't have a _choice."_ Castiel lifts one hand and flicks his fingers, glaring at Dean. "Sam needs me. In case you've forgotten, _God_ is our focus." 

"Oh, _Sam_ needs you," Dean grumbles, crossing his arms and pressing hard against the door. "Well, you know what, God is a long way from being handled, so shift your focus for point-two seconds. Can you even do that? Hell no, you're the fucking poster angel for running headfirst into some big bad to avoid your goddamn problems!" 

"It's not just some _big bad,_ Dean," Castiel snaps, "it's God! And you have no room to talk about running from your problems." 

"I'm here with you, aren't I?" Dean challenges snidely, curling his lip in disdain. 

Castiel tilts his chin up. "Unfortunately." 

"Why are you being so—so _difficult?!"_ Dean shouts, waving his hands around wildly. "I'm _trying,_ okay? At least I'm fuckin' trying!" 

"I may not be well-versed in many proverbial sayings, Dean, but I've become intimately familiar with ‘ _too little, too late’."_ Castiel raises his eyebrows pointedly. 

"Fuck off with your Mr. High and Mighty shtick, Cas. I'm not dealing with it." 

"Then _leave."_

"No!" 

"I do not want you here." 

Dean holds his hands out and gives a bitter laugh, the sound grating harshly in his throat. "Well, that's just too damn bad. I'm not going anywhere until—" 

"Until _what?"_ Castiel cuts him off, surging forward a few steps to jab a finger at him. "What do you _want?!_ Whatever it is, I can assure you that it's not a priority!" 

"I want you to stop being so fucking _mean!"_ Dean yells, jerking away from the door to gesture at Castiel with a shaking hand. "You've always been a dick, but you've never—you haven't ever been so harsh! Not to me!" 

"What does it matter?" Castiel tilts his head, lips trembling around a snarl. "What do you care about how someone _dead_ to you treats you, Dean?" 

"Oh, this again?" Dean groans and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

_"Yes,_ this again!" Castiel declares loudly, drawing in a deep breath, his hands visibly trembling as he waves them through the air. "You ostracized me, you refused to talk to me, you barely even _looked_ at me! _You_ were harsh, _you_ were _mean."_

Dean heaves a deep sigh. "I'm a mean person, Cas." 

"And I'm tired of it! I have been there for you, _with_ you, for over ten years! Consistently, without fail, I've always been here with my best intentions. And maybe I messed up, but so have you! So has Sam! Every one of us has screwed up, and I _know_ I make many mistakes, but it is not fair to judge me for things that happened against my control. Mary's death is _not_ my fault, no matter what you think. It was not _I_ who chased our son down in a graveyard with all intentions of killing him on some half-baked plan at revenge! You never gave him a chance! All because Mary died at his hands!" 

Castiel is full-on shaking after his outburst, his eyes wide, looking close to righteous smiting. Dean feels like he's swallowed a grenade. 

"You still blame me for that," Dean whispers. 

"Yes, I still blame you for that," Castiel says, jaw clenching. "And you still blame me for Rowena's death, when you don't even _know_ what I went through. I had to leave my son's corpse in _Hell,_ Dean. I didn't get to bury him, I—I had to watch an abomination use his body because _you_ decided it was necessary. And it was _me_ who had to handle it when that inevitably came back to bite us in the ass. You pushed me to go into Hell, and you would have let me _rot_ there, and you don't care about me, Dean. You—you don't _care,_ and I'm done trying to convince myself that you do." 

"How dare you?" Dean can feel that grenade explode in slow motion within him, pushing rage throughout his entire body. "You think any of this has been easy for me? Having to handle Jack? Having to make that choice when it was the _last_ damn thing I wanted to do? And then being unable to do it anyway?! Watching him die, losing yet _another_ family member, and then having to work with the fucking demon who took a ride in his corpse? He was my kid, too!" 

"A kid you wanted to kill!" Castiel bursts out, taking yet another step forward. "Our _child,_ Dean! You cannot claim to have loved him if you _ever_ meant to destroy him, wracked with grief or not! If it was Sam—" 

"Don't you fucking bring Sam into this!" 

"Why not, Dean? It's the _truth._ You would have never even _considered_ harming Sam if—" 

"Sam didn't kill my fucking mom!" Dean yells, advancing forward, fists itching to lash out. 

"And if he had, you would have torn the world apart looking for ways to forgive him," Castiel says with a low hiss, the words cracking like thunder in the sudden stillness. "Jack did not get that same effort. And honestly? Neither would I." 

Dean can feel a thickness in his throat, a pinching in the back of his eyes, but he _refuses_ to cry. He blinks hard and swallows, lifting a shaking hand. "That is _not_ fair, and you know it," he croaks. "There was more to it than just—just being _hurt._ Jack went off the rails; we were all at a loss! I didn't know what other choice there was." 

"There's always choices, Dean," Castiel says softly, looking at him, eyes watering. "You taught me that." 

"You're not doing all of this because you think I hate you," Dean mutters, laughing hollowly. "You're acting like this because you can't forgive me. You actually—you finally fucking _hate_ me." 

"There's nothing in this world that you could do to make me hate you." Castiel takes in a shuddering breath. "What you did was pushing it, I'll admit, but I have never and will never hate you. Sometimes I want to, but I just—I can't. It's not something I've ever learned how to do." 

"But you can't forgive me." 

"I already have." 

Dean closes his eyes and looks away, those fucking tears fighting to rise and escape. "Cas," he rasps, blinking rapidly and peering at him, "this isn't forgiveness, man. You _blame_ me for—" 

"Yes, I do, because I have all rights to," Castiel snaps, words thick and cutting. "But unlike you, I don't have it within me to hold onto that bitterness. You make me...weak, somehow. You always have. Am I angry? _Yes._ You did something that _hurts_ me. You put a gun to his head, you condoned a demon to use his body, you ate the last of his cereal, you—" 

"Are you kidding me?" Dean jolts as if he's been electrocuted. "Are you seriously pissed about that?" 

Castiel stares at him. "I know it was a mistake." 

"Yeah, it was," Dean snaps, a flash of fury hitting him like a freight train, making his mouth move without his permission. "That ain't the only thing I did by mistake when I didn't have my memories." 

"Somehow, I knew you would try to use this against me as well, like this is my fault." Castiel's lips tighten and he shakes his head. "I won't allow it. I was _not_ at fault for the intimacy that transpired between us while we were without memories." 

"I'm not saying it's your fault, Cas, Jesus fuckin' Christ!" Dean tosses up his hands. "I'm saying that it was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened." 

"I assumed that was common knowledge," Castiel snips, glaring at Dean coldly. 

Dean sucks in a sharp breath. "Fuck you, Cas. You're so—I can't believe you're being an asshole about _this._ Of all things. Seriously?" 

"Do not even _try_ and pretend that you had no intentions of being rude about it," Castiel says, arching an eyebrow at him in challenge. 

"If I wanted to, I wouldn't have a leg to stand on! I had your dick in my mouth, Cas! I told Sam I was _in love_ with you," Dean admits with a little hysterical laugh, trembling fingers catching against his shirt as he tries to shove them in his pockets. 

Castiel goes still, his eyes flicking down to watch Dean's shitty attempt at hiding his hands. He doesn't know why he needs to, they're just _hands,_ but he hates how hard they're shaking right now. The appendages are proving to be difficult, however, and he has to settle for crossing his arms. Slowly, Castiel looks back up at him, into his eyes, a storm of curiosity and wariness in his own blue gaze. 

"You—you aren't, right?" Castiel finally murmurs, an unsettled expression crossing his face. "Dean, you're not in love with me. You're not. Right?" 

Dean's lips part. No one's ever asked him that before. If he's in love with them, if he's in love with _Castiel._ Hell, he's never asked himself that question. Not until he woke up without memories and felt something terrifyingly close to it. And he hadn't had the answers then, so he's just _assumed._ He'd went with what he felt naturally, having nothing else to go on, and he'd decided that it was love. 

Oh. Oh _no._

"You can't just—just _ask_ someone that," Dean chokes out, staring at Castiel with wide eyes. 

Castiel's throat clicks into the stretching silence, his throat bobbing. "Dean," he says very carefully, taking another measure step forward, "answer me." 

"I—I don't—" 

"Dean, answer my question." 

And that's something that Dean will _not_ be doing, thank-you-very-much. With his heart rioting in his chest, he swivels on the spot and jerks the door open, darting out into the hall. He slams the door behind him, trying to get air into his lungs and prepare to make a break for his room where he can have a panic attack in peace. There's a shuffling sound to his left and Dean's head whips around. 

Sam and Eileen are standing a few steps away, both wearing guilty looks, and Dean knows they were eavesdropping. Well, Sam had definitely listened while Eileen probably got the cliff notes as Sam signed or mouthed them to her. Which means they fucking know _everything._

Dean grits his jaw and turns away, marching to his room and slamming the door so hard that the plaster near the doorway splinters. He grimaces at it and lashes out at the dresser near the door, kicking it with his boot, breathing heavily once all the pent up frustration drains out of him. Staring at the mess on the floor from the top of the dresser and the cracked wall, he releases a slow breath and moves over to his bed. He's so, _so_ tired. 

Tomorrow he'll pick the shit up and replaster the wall, and maybe—just maybe—he'll figure out a way to tell Castiel no. He doesn't know why it's so hard. 

He's always been good at lying before. 

* * *

Dean wakes to a quiet knock at his door. His head throbs and he groans as he pushes himself up on his elbows, squinting at the door as it pushes open. 

Eileen sticks her head in. "Morning, Dean." 

"Mornin'," Dean croaks, smacking his lips and grimacing at the taste. 

"There's breakfast in the kitchen," Eileen says, her lips twitching up at the corners. 

Dean forces himself to turn and look at her fully so she can see what he has to say. "Yeah, I'm not really hungry, Eileen, but thank you." 

Eileen's smile turns sharp. "It wasn't a request. See you in ten," she says with a wink that suggests she'll come drag him out herself if he makes the mistake of refusing to listen. 

As she shuts the door again, Dean groans and lets his face drop into the pillow. Just for a moment, he grants himself the chance to have a good shout, knowing it'll be muffled. It feels good, even if it rubs his throat raw, but there's a looseness in his shoulders when he pushes himself up. 

Sighing, Dean goes about getting ready to face the morning. He ends up taking a shower, which goes _way_ past the time frame Eileen set for him, but he doubts this counts. He feels better after a shower anyway, more awake, more capable of facing the shitstorm that's surely heading his way. 

He expects Castiel to be in the kitchen too, as much as he's dreading that possibility, but he isn't there. Dean relaxes just slightly as he grabs himself a plate and piles bacon on it, avoiding Sam's gaze. 

As soon as he's sat at the table, however, there's no escaping his pesky, pushy little brother. Sam leans forward and says, "You never answered him." 

"Jesus," Dean mutters, dropping his piece of bacon and sighing. "Dude, come on, I'm trying to _eat."_

Sam spreads his hands in compliance, pressing his lips together, but once Dean is chewing, he opens his mouth again. "He asked you if you were in love with him and you never answered him." 

"Goddammit, Sam," Dean snaps, groaning and pressing one hand to his hairline, staring down at his bacon helplessly. "Shut the fuck up." 

"Are you?" Sam continues. 

Dean looks up and scowls at him. "I'm—I don't— You know what, mind your fuckin' business. Why do you want to know anyway?" 

"Because Cas left," Sam replies simply, watching Dean closely for reaction. "Took off this morning. Eileen caught him and checked his room. He took basically all of his shit." 

"He'll come back," Dean mumbles, looking down at his bacon, his appetite gone. "Always does." 

"I dunno, you two had a pretty big fight." 

"That was none of your business." 

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, 'cause we both keep our noses out of each other's business. That's a thing we do. I wanted to know what was going on, and you sure as hell weren't gonna tell me." 

"Well," Dean says with a sarcastic smile, "there you have it." 

"So, you two...you know." Sam makes a lewd gesture with his fingers that has Eileen grinning. "When you lost your memories?" 

Dean goes back to looking at his bacon, feeling slightly sick. "You already fucking heard everything, so stop asking. I ain't repeating anything." 

"And you two have been fighting this whole time? That's why he left in the first place, isn't it?" 

"Obviously." 

"Dean, you have _got_ to start telling me this kind of stuff," Sam mutters, frowning. "I was actually worried about him." 

"After the shit he said about you last night, you're on _his_ side?" Dean blurts, glancing up to glare at Sam. 

"First, I'm on _no sides._ I'm Switzerland. Second, he didn't say anything about me that wasn't true." Sam's face spasmed with some kind of pain for a second, his throat bobbing. "If—if I _had_ done something that horrible, you wouldn't have...you know." 

"You don't know that. Neither does he." 

"Actually, we _do_ know. I've done horrible things before, remember? We already know what you'd do because you've already had to make that choice." 

"Okay, so he was right." Dean shoves his plate away and leans back in his seat. "You want me to apologize for it? It ain't a secret that you matter more than everyone else. Whoopty fuckin' doo." 

Sam rolls his eyes. "You're ridiculous. You know who _else_ has done some horrible shit? Cas. And what did you do? You made the same choice for him as you would for me. I matter the most, sure, but Cas matters just as much. Jack was...different. He was our kid, yeah, but you'd already had a lot of issues with him before. Deep down, you were always convinced that he'd go bad. You're cynical like that. And you're also the guy convinced that you have to shoulder the burden of doing the hard things. God gave you a gun and said it was your only option, and you didn't know that it wasn't." 

"Fuck, where were you last night?" Dean releases a shaky breath that's more relief than anything. Guilt still churns sourly in his stomach. "Coulda used some back up against Cas." 

"I'm not backing you up," Sam says, pursing his lips slightly. "I'm just being rational. Cas is just as hurt as you are, Dean. And you're—well, you're acting like a brat, actually. Kicking up a fuss because he's not being your friend anymore. It's bad form." 

"Fuck you, that's not—I'm not doing that," Dean denies, scowling and snatching up a piece of bacon to tear into it. "I'm just…" 

"In love," Eileen says gently. 

Dean points at her. "You know, I usually like you." 

"She's right." Sam shakes his head and lets out a stunned laugh. "Can't believe I missed it. You're actually...in love with Cas. That's—wow, that makes so much _sense."_

"I'm not—" Dean's mouth snaps shut and he looks down, eyes sinking closed. "Fuck." 

"You know what you gotta do, right?" Sam asks, picking up his fork and waving it at Dean. "Take your own advice. How did you put it? Right. Cas is hot. You could do worse, and he could _definitely_ do better, so much better. But...I'm happy for you." 

Dean can feel the heat flood his cheeks and he hates it so _much._ "S'not the same, Sam. It ain't—it's not exactly a mutual thing." 

"How do you know?" Eileen asks, peering at him over the rim of her orange juice. 

"Take it from me," Sam says, eyes wide in amusement as he tips his head from side-to-side, "it's definitely mutual." 

"He kinda hates me right now," Dean mutters. 

Sam nods. "So, fix it. Fight for it. Whatever. Do what you gotta do, man. But trust me, Cas isn't without some feelings of his own." 

Dean's eyebrows draw together. "And what? I'm just supposed to go after him? Do some stupid chick flick moment and hope for the best?" 

"Yep," Sam says, nodding. 

Dean scowls. "I ain't doing that." 

"So, I take it you never want to be the reason he smiles again. You never want to kiss him again, never want to have sex with him again, never want to make him laugh." Eileen raises her eyebrows, cocking her head slightly. "That's what you're saying, isn't it?" 

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, then releases a deep sigh. "Did he happen to say where he was going?" 

Sam and Eileen share a grin. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gapes at him. "I—I'm not Sam. You and Sam aren't the same as you and me, you know that." 
> 
> "If this is what the difference costs me," Castiel says firmly, "then I don't want it." 

At first, Dean doesn't know why Castiel has come to this little swamp town in Louisiana. It's as backwoods as a town can get, where most of the roads are dirt and there's only two stop lights. The place is mostly woods full of cabins and people who handle trespassers with the end of their shotgun rather than calling the police. 

Like most small towns like this, there is a bar. Dean's GPS tracker that Sam so kindly gave him—a thing his smart little brother installed on Castiel's phone while he wasn't looking, fed up with him leaving without a word—tells him that Castiel is in that bar. Dean can't make heads or tails of that and hesitates to go in, not entirely sure if a small-town bar with nothing but locals will take too kindly to two virtual strangers getting into a fight inside. If he can help it, he wants to avoid getting thrown out on his ass. 

It's while he's looking down at his phone, trying to research the bar—and it's so off the map that even Google has nothing on it—that a shadow descends over the passenger-side window. Dean glances up in time to watch a figure open the door and slide in beside him. He's reaching for his gun before he fully registers that it's Castiel. 

Castiel is scowling. "You followed me here." 

"Uh," Dean says, fingers relaxing on his gun, his mouth suddenly unsure how to make words. He clears his throat and tries to think before speaking, to get this right. 

"Good," Castiel tells him, barreling over whatever Dean can think up. "The witch is here." 

Dean blinks. "The… Cas, you came all the way out here to—to hunt the _witch?_ The same witch who took our memories without even trying?" 

Castiel stares resolutely ahead. "Yes." 

"Are you _insane?!_ She could do it again!" 

"I'm aware." 

"Jesus, Cas, what are you _doing?"_ Dean reaches up and rubs at his forehead. "For once in your life, please don't be a dumbass." 

"She is a threat," Castiel replies simply. 

Dean lets out a heavy sigh. "See, this is what I'm talking about. You go find some really threatening adversary to throw yourself at to avoid what's going on with—with everything. You already _know_ that she's powerful enough to fuck you up, but you'd rather face her than face me." 

"As opposed to just leaving her to go free? She's enslaving fellow witches, _good_ witches to do her bidding. We killed those witches, Dean. Those people in the field, they were probably just normal people with a calling to magic. I'm just doing what's right; that's all I ever try to do." 

"And you're gonna end up getting yourself hurt, or worse, _dead._ This is the kinda job that requires _all_ of us, Cas. You don't have to do all this shit alone." 

Castiel turns to face him, eyebrows raised. "Then I suppose it's a good thing you invaded my privacy and followed me here, isn't it? Are you going to help, or are you going to leave?" 

"Invaded your _privacy?"_ Dean's eyebrows fly up, a shocked huff of laughter falling from his lips. "Dude, I came out here to...find you, okay? To talk to you." 

"You could have called." 

"We both know you wouldn't have answered." 

Castiel doesn't deny it. He says nothing, looking straight ahead again, lips slightly pursed. Dean feels a lot of things all at once. He's angry that Castiel isn't making this easier on him. Strangely fond of how utterly bitchy Castiel is being, proud that he's holding his ground, even if it fucks with Dean's plans to try and make this right. There's also an underlying feeling of hopelessness, despair settling low in his chest, telling him with nothing more than a gut feeling that this isn't going to work. Maybe Castiel was right, maybe Dean really is just the epitome of _too little, too late._

"Perhaps you are right," Castiel abruptly says, releasing a heavy sigh. He lifts one hand and lets it drop back to his lap. "There is a chance that I run from my problems. I am...unsure how to face them without causing more issues. You said to me that when things go wrong, the problems always seem to be me, or because of me. I wish that was false, but I think… Well, the evidence certainly doesn't contradict that, as such." 

Dean swallows, his heart suddenly feeling mashed up the wrong way in his chest. "It's okay, you know. I mean, I don't have _any_ room to talk, like you said. I think—as crazy as it is—Sam's the most well-rounded out of all of us, and that boy has been through some _shit._ But so have we. And I guess we're just fuck-ups." 

"So, why am I the one who gets judged so harshly for it?" Castiel turns to look at Dean, his eyebrows furrowed. "Is it because I'm an angel? Do I have higher expectations to live up to? I know you have complicated feelings about that, but Dean…you need to understand that I'm not perfect." 

"I know that, I really do." Dean tries to look at Castiel, but finds that he can't. He averts his eyes and clears his throat around the lump that's clogging the words he needs to say next. "You're not perfect, and I don't expect you to be. But uh, you—you're kinda perfect to _me."_

There's a pause, then Castiel sighs. "Dean, I don't have the energy to try and parse out what you mean. There is no one else here; just _talk."_

"I don't know, okay?" Dean grimaces and waves his hands in the general direction of the windshield. "All those people out there? Me and Sam? You're not supposed to be on our level! I got you up on this pedestal, because to _me,_ you can't do anything wrong. Even when you're messing up, it's hard for me to see it as anything bad, and that's not—that ain't right! Just 'cause you're an angel doesn't mean you get a free pass. Just 'cause you're perfect to me doesn't mean I can just let shit slide, Cas!" 

"I'm not asking you to," Castiel snaps. 

"Well, I ain't gonna!" Dean barks, whipping around to glare at Castiel, suddenly in full-on ranting mode by complete accident. "It doesn't matter how I feel, or what I want, that's not how the world works. You've betrayed me, you've lied to me, you've left me so many times I lost count! And—and every single time I tell myself that you won't do it again, or that you meant no harm, you do something _worse!"_

Castiel narrows his eyes and grips the door handle, jaw clenched. "You do _not_ get to use my mistakes as a reason to doubt me when I have never used yours against you. There is a lot of time between us, time that I spent doing things wrong, _yes,_ but even more when I did things right." 

"I'm not using them _against_ you, I'm just—" 

"Sam doesn't do this." 

"What?" Dean rears back, a sharp inhale through his nose cutting into the silence. 

"You heard me." Castiel twists fully in the seat to stare at Dean unforgivingly. "Sam forgives me at every turn. In fact, he never expects _anything_ out of me but my willingness to help. If you ask him to tell it, I'm simply doing my best with what I've got. So what's your problem, Dean?" 

Dean gapes at him. "I—I'm not Sam. You and Sam aren't the same as you and me, you know that." 

"If this is what the difference costs me," Castiel says firmly, "then I don't want it." 

That sentence hits Dean like a battering ram. He has the sudden feeling that he's being dumped, _again._ That doesn't make sense because he hasn't been dumped at all, but he knows the feeling intimately. And fuck, it still hurts after all these years. 

_Then I don't want it._

Dean reaches forward and grabs Baby's wheel, gripping tight enough that his knuckles go white and the leather squeaks. His mind suddenly goes into panic mode as he realizes that this is it, for real this time. If Castiel is saying this and _meaning_ it, that he doesn't want even the good parts between them, that they don't outweigh the bad anymore, that they're not worth the effort...then this can turn bitter and flat before Dean can breathe life back into it. He'll lose Castiel, lose yet _another_ part of his family, lose something a bit more than that, too. 

All of his anger is gone in an instant, taken over by his pure fear that Castiel won't be able to forgive and forget this time, and Dean is babbling before he's fully aware of it. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry, okay? I know—fuck, I _know_ that I'm a piece of shit and you don't deserve even _half_ of the stuff I put you through. I know that, okay? And—and I'm sorry. I can't make up for it, not for Jack, not for making you feel the way you do, not for any of it...but please, _please_ don't fucking leave again. You can hate me much as you want, and be as mean as you need to be, for however long you think you should, and I'll—I'll let you. I will. I can take it. I _will_ take it, and I'll—" 

"Stop," Castiel orders sharply, looking at Dean with his face twisted up. "Dean, _stop._ This isn't you. This is not how you handle these situations." 

"It's different this time," Dean says weakly. 

"How?" Castiel asks. 

Dean stares at him, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. He blinks rapidly against the sting in his eyes, fighting the tightness of his chest. "It used to scare me, ya know? That—that you'd leave for some reason and never come back. Through death or betrayal or just—just plain hating me. But you always did, Cas. I get scared every time, and I don't get scared of much. This time, you ain't coming back 'cause you don't want to. I don't—I can't figure out how I'm supposed to live with that." 

Castiel stares at him for a long time, lips tipped down, eyes squinting in the way that's just too damn adorable. He eventually murmurs, "I wasn't aware that it bothered you that much." 

"It—it doesn't, all the time. I know you got stuff you need to do and you can't be around all the time, even if we—even if _I_ want you to." Dean gulps when Castiel's eyebrows raise at that. "Shut up, I'm trying, okay? Sam wants you to stick around too, but it's like you said. It isn't him being an asshole." 

"If you want me to stay, why don't you just _ask?_ I mean, you have, but I always come when I'm able. When I left last time, you—you said nothing." 

"I didn't know what _to_ say. Never do. Still don't." 

Castiel eyes him and sighs. "I'd be angry with that response if I didn't understand it. I find myself at a loss of words around you sometimes as well. Strangely, it was easier when we were without our memories." 

"God," Dean chokes out with a weak laugh, "it really was, wasn't it? All we did _was_ talk." 

"Well." Castiel snaps his mouth shut so quickly that Dean blinks at the loud sound of his teeth clicking together. 

Ah, right. Dean coughs. "And we had sex. That—that happened too," he mutters, trying to ignore the heat invading his cheeks. 

"Yes," Castiel says shortly. 

"We gonna talk about that orrrr…" Dean trails off, throwing Castiel a wary look. 

"I thought we agreed that was a mistake," Castiel replies carefully, looking down at his lap. 

Dean winces and reaches up to scratch his cheek, listening to the slight scruff ruffle underneath his nails. "I—I mean, it depends on what you classify as a mistake. Saying yes to Michael? _Huge_ mistake. Beer before liquor? Definitely a mistake. But...can we say that us having sex was as big of a mistake as swallowing Levathians? Compared to that, I don't know if it was. More of a mistake like picking out the wrong size boots is a mistake. Ya know?" 

"Like—Dean, _what?"_ Castiel blurts, turning to look at him with astonished eyes, like he's in awe of the stretch of Dean's idiocy. "You're comparing our sexual encounter to ill-fitting shoes?" 

"No, _no,_ I swear I'm not," Dean says hastily, eyes bulging as he turns towards Castiel. "Nothin' ill-fitting about what we did, Cas, trust and believe. I'm just sayin' that maybe it wasn't the kinda mistake that we gotta, y'know, freak out over." 

"I wasn't freaking out." 

"I was. Kinda. A little." 

Castiel arches an eyebrow. "I assumed you would." 

"Not—not because of why you're thinking! I wasn't freaking out 'cause you're dude-shaped or because we're besties or any of that," Dean mutters defensively, huffing when Castiel's eyebrows hike higher in doubt. "Really, I wasn't. I just—I guess I was a little worried about how it would affect _us."_

"Things that mean nothing _can't_ affect us, Dean." 

"...Yeah, that's the problem, Cas." 

"It…" Castiel stops, blinking slowly as he looks at Dean. Quitely, he whispers, "Oh." 

"It's not important." 

"It meant something to you." 

Dean grimaces. "Don't worry about it, Cas." 

"What did it mean?" Castiel asks softly. 

Such a loaded fucking question. Dean desperately wishes he could answer it. Things would be a lot easier if he could just say it. Just say _it means everything._ He doesn't know why, but he can't voice that, can't make the words leave his lips. 

"Look, you're right about the witch," Dean murmurs carefully, changing the subject. "And since I invaded your privacy, the least I could do is help." 

Castiel sighs. "Dean…" 

"Just—just tell me about the witch, okay? You were right; she is a priority. Let's handle that before we hash out our...issues." 

"You wish to...hash things out?" 

Dean looks over at Castiel in confusion. "I—I mean, if we can. Maybe bury the hatchet, if possible. God is kinda on our doorstep and we still ain't figured out how to handle him yet. Could use your help with that, Cas." 

"That's why you came," Castiel says, looking away as his fist balled up in his lap. His nostrils flare as he releases a deep breath. "Very well. The witch is hiding out in a cabin near the swamp. I believe she is trying to draw in other witches to do her bidding." 

"Okay," Dean mutters, feeling as if he's misstepped somewhere. "But why _here?"_

"Dean, there is a deep magic here. A lot of witches originate from Louisiana. The media depicts this place in mockery, but it's true that people are more inclined to old magic here." 

"Huh. Like voodoo dolls and shit?" 

"So to speak," Castiel replies, leaning back in the seat to reach in his pocket and pull out a folded map. He unfolds it and shows the circled location to Dean, letting him study it. "The locals were very forthcoming about her. They believe she murdered the previous owner of the cabin, but they cannot prove it, and many are aware of her power. They're too frightened to take her on." 

Dean hums and turns the keys, listening to Baby start up with a rumble as he tosses Castiel a grin. "Well, guess it's a good thing they got us. The dream team." 

Castiel turns his head to look out the window, and Dean's smile drops as he watches the line of Castiel's throat bob. Sighing, he pulls them out of the parking lot, gritting his teeth in the heavy silence. 

* * *

A few miles out from the cabin, Dean has to shut Baby off and stop. There's no further he can drive, not without a path and not through the thicket of trees. They have no choice but to get out and walk the rest of the way, much as he's dreading it. 

Castiel is silent as he walks, his arms limp at his sides, eyes flicking around cautiously. Dean tries to keep his eyes peeled for anything dangerous, but his gaze keeps finding Castiel against his will. He doesn't know what he said wrong in the car, besides most of everything, but there must have been some terrible mistake in his speech because things seem worse, somehow. 

Dean kind of hates how emotionally stunted he is sometimes. Usually, he appreciates it. That particular trait has saved him from many awkward conversations and from having to face painful emotions. It allows him to lock his shit up and avoid it, keep pressing forward, adapt. In his life, that's essential for him because he's not like Sam; he can't just _feel_ everything all the time, not without crushing under the weight of it. He needs the denial and the reprieve, needs his ability to turn pain into anger, needs the escape in his own stubborn mind. 

Maybe that's a copout, maybe it's weak, but Dean clings to it. If anything, it helps him cope as much as it screws up his goddamn life. 

But, in this moment, Dean despises it. He doesn't want to screw up his relationship with Castiel, no matter what that relationship may be. Whether they're nothing but warriors in arms, fighting the same war, partners against the things that oppose them—or two guys who can't help how much they love each other, who are so stupidly drawn together that it's agonizing, who crave each other the same way they crave peace...it doesn't matter to him. He doesn't want to ruin it, whichever it is. He's already lost so much and he's so, _so_ tired of losing. 

It's pointless if he really thinks about it. They've both hurt each other so much at this point that maybe it would be best if they didn't make things right. It's borderline _toxic_ the way they go back and forth, betraying and blaming and fucking _hurting_ each other. They've both said and done things in the past, recent and long ago, that would send any normal person running for the hills. 

But they're not normal. Nothing about them is, especially not their bond. It defies all the odds stacked against them. Despite everything, they always find a way to trust each other, to come back together, to be _okay._ Castiel is an Angel, for fuck's sake, and Dean…well, he's the farthest thing from a regular human that there's ever going to be. 

Everything with them is intense, which baffles Dean to no end. Even when they're _happy,_ it somehow manages to feel like the happiest they'll ever be. They don't do anything by halves, their dial turned up as far as it will go, and the negative parts are no exception. They can't fight without going for the jugular, can't save each other without being willing to sacrifice themselves, can't find a slice of joy without burning so bright that it nearly hurts. 

They're not simple, never have been, never will be. 

But Dean doesn't _want_ simplicity. He can't handle that. It doesn't settle right with him, never has, didn't with Lisa, didn't in a Djinn dream, and probably never will. Simple for him is the world not ending, and that's not even an extreme; that's just his _life._ Dean needs the thrill and complications that seem to follow him in every facet of his life. Castiel has never failed to be thrilling and complicated. 

Suddenly, Dean's _I need you_ from so long ago feels a lot heavier now that he thinks about it. In fact, he's beginning to realize that those words were a deceleration in their own right, even when he hadn't fully understood that. As heavy as the words are, especially with how true they are, even to this day, he's never considered them in length. 

Loving someone is involuntary. It happens and it's like learning a new language. Once you know, you can't stop hearing what the words mean. Dean loves with everything he has, almost against his will, and he doesn't stop himself from doing that because he knows it's not exactly a choice. 

Needing someone, however, is entirely different. You can love someone and let them go, move on and find a different language to learn. But needing them is like learning a language and forgetting your original one, knowing no other way to communicate. It's a clinging, desperate thing that makes you helpless, makes you weak, and you don't even fight it. Dean hasn't fought it because he can't. He needs Castiel, plain and simple, which is fucking _sad,_ really, because he often loses him. 

Dean doesn't want simple, no, but sometimes he could do with some relief. 

Relief, right now, would be fixing this. Not even confessing his love and living happily ever after, just making them okay again. That's all he wants for right now, but he doubts it'll be easy. They can't fix this without unearthing all their problems, and it feels like they'll tear each other apart before they can start healing. After all, they don't do anything by halves. 

"The cabin is just up ahead," Castiel murmurs, drawing Dean from his reverie. 

Dean blinks and looks up at the cabin lit up with a warm glow he can easily recognize as candles. He bites his lip and surveys their surroundings, looking for any sign of the witch or protective magic. Castiel abruptly steps forward and Dean reaches out to catch his arm, fingers clutching at his trenchcoat. Castiel wrenches away instantly, but comes to a halt. 

Dean's shoulders sag and he sighs. "Sorry, I just—we kinda need a plan, Cas." 

"We go in and kill the witch," Castiel says blandly, practical as ever. 

"Well, _yeah,_ but how are we gonna do that?" Dean asks, lips twitching despite himself. Castiel is so effortlessly funny sometimes that it kills him. 

"Would you like me to enter the front and engage while you sneak in the back?" Castiel narrows his eyes at the cabin, strategically planning and stretching his _Leader of the Garrison_ muscles in a way that Dean rarely gets to witness. "I can take the brunt of her power, while you attack her as she's preoccupied with me." 

"What if she hits you with that memory spell again?" Dean mutters warily. 

Castiel slowly turns to look at Dean, eyebrow arching up in a judgemental arc. "I know what to expect now, Dean, and this is a trap _we're_ setting, not walking into. She won't get the chance." 

"Shit," Dean blurts out weakly, looking away. Now is the _worst_ time for Castiel to be so—so fucking commanding and _hot._ In a rasp, he croaks, "Yeah, okay, that's—that could work. Any back up plan for things that could go wrong?" 

"If her power seems to be too much, it's important that she only targets one of us. You will need to be as silent as possible while I keep her focus on me. There must be one of us in command of ourselves at all times, regardless of what may happen to the other, so do _not_ show yourself until you've killed her." Castiel takes a deep breath. _"If_ she does manage to attack us with any spell, there needs to be one of us who can take the other home to be cured." 

Dean swallows. "Sure sounds like you're trying to be the only one attacked here, Cas." 

"It's necessary, and I can handle whatever she throws my way. I'd prefer it this way." 

"I don't like it. You're not just being _rational,_ you're trying to...protect me. You do that a lot." 

Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean. "You're very capable, but it's very important that—"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time," Dean interrupts, frowning. "Fine, let's go. Give me a five minute head start to get into position." 

Not waiting for an answer, Dean tucks himself low to the ground and starts slinking towards the back of the cabin, keeping tight to the side. He can hear someone faintly mumbling inside through a cracked window, and he hopes with all his might that this witch hasn't thought to put up detection spells. Carefully, he pauses beneath the window and hesitantly cranes his neck up to peer over the windowsill, looking inside. 

Oh, he definitely remembers her. It's odd, now that he thinks about it, that he recalls how easily she made him and Castiel forget. With one spell, her eyes glowing, she'd taken every scrap of who they were and evaporated it into smoke, leaving them grasping at vapors and half-cocked assumptions based on feelings without any context. 

A part of him wants to thank her. It's crude, he knows that, but she'd inadvertently given him the chance to have Castiel; short-lived as it had been, he can't help but be slightly grateful for that. But whatever part of him that appreciates what came of her spell is easily drowned out by the anger that he feels for all the ways she fucked up his life. 

It's not how they do things, and it's certainly not the plan, but Dean's not thinking. He's just so _frustrated_ that this woman dared to invade his mind, his memories, his _life_ and cause more problems that he now has to deal with. It's with a blank anger that he pulls his gun out of his pocket, inserts a witch-killing bullet, and slides the barrel through the cracked window. He arches down to accommodate for the resistance in the kickback against the window, and he closes one eye to aim. 

Releasing a breath, Dean pulls the trigger. 

It's something he's seen happen ten times over, but this time feels...wrong almost. The bullet embeds itself into her skull, right between her eyes, and blows the back of her head out, splattering blood against the rickety wood behind her. She crumbles immediately, the light dying in her gaze, and Dean swallows as he stares at her dead body. 

Maybe…he should not have done that. Not—not that he hasn't ever killed someone before, _monsters_ especially, but this is...this just feels gross. He doesn't think he's ever killed a person who wasn't aware that it was coming, or that it was a possibility. Suddenly, he can understand why his memory-less self had assumed they were serial killers. 

In a way, maybe they are. 

But he can't dwell on that, not now. She is—was a bad witch who'd killed multiple people, so just another monster he had to gank. That's life, _his_ life. He shakes off the mild guilt and clears his throat, turning around heading back the way he came. 

"Dean! Are you—what happened?" Castiel asks sharply, careening around the corner just as Dean does, catching Dean's arms as they slam into each other. He holds on. 

Dean blinks. "She's dead." 

"She's—you killed her," Castiel murmurs, his eyes scanning Dean's features. "From an outside vantage point, without entry. Are you certain you hit her?" 

"Very," Dean admits, averting his eyes. 

"Are you...alright?" Castiel asks warily, still gripping Dean's arms, eyes squinting as he watches him. "You seem slightly upset." 

"The window was down, and I just—I shot her. She didn't even—she never knew I was there," Dean whispers, gaze falling to Castiel's chest as those words sit heavy between them. 

Castiel hums softly. "You're unsettled." 

"It's stupid," Dean mutters, scowling as he forces himself to lock away his unease. He looks up and slaps on a grin. "Doesn't matter. Ding-dong, the witch is dead." 

"You did very well, Dean. You saw an opportunity to eliminate a threat without allowing more danger, and though I'm annoyed you didn't stick to the plan, I think you made the right decision," Castiel tells him, his voice soft and slow. 

"I'm fine, Cas," Dean insists. "Really, it ain't nothin' I haven't done a hundred times." 

"Okay." Castiel drops his hands and steps back, nodding casually. "We should handle the body and burn her witchcraft, take what we need, then see to it that the locals are aware that you saved them." 

Dean suddenly misses Castiel's hands on him something _fierce._ He desperately wants to step forward and find home in the circle of Castiel's arms, wants to feel their bodies sag together like they're meant to fit that way, wants to tuck his face into Castiel's neck and breath him in—it sucks that he never fully appreciated what they had before it was gone. Because he can't do that now, not anymore, not as they truly are. 

He feels hollow as Castiel turns away to go do what he's just described. It's like someone reached into every crevice of his very being and scraped everything right out. He _wants,_ and he can't have, and it's his own goddamn fault. 

"Cas," Dean calls out, that word so quiet and heavy with emotion that it barely counts as a breath.

Castiel doesn't seem to hear him, or maybe he doesn't want to listen. Dean doesn't know which, and deep down, he doesn't want to find out. 

* * *

The bartender buys them a round of drinks in a not-so-subtle thanks for being killers, no questions asked. It reminds him faintly of the hunting community in that _don't ask, don't tell_ kind of way. They don't want details, they're just grateful. 

Dean knows it's rude to refuse, so he bobs his head and takes their glasses to a small booth in the corner that will grant them as much privacy as they can get with everyone eyeing them and whispering about them. He's a little fascinated by their accents, how deep and delectable they all sound, more twang than you can shake a stick at but somehow none at all. 

"You like it here," Castiel comments as he slides in across from Dean, head tilting. 

Dean shrugs. "I like the bar, I like the people and how they sound, but I ain't gonna pack up and move here, if that's what you mean." 

"It's not," Castiel replies, then goes silent as he looks out at the small crowd of people, back to avoiding Dean's gaze yet again. 

"So, about hashing things out…" Dean mutters. 

"No point," Castiel says. 

Well then. Dean knocks back his drink, grimacing at the kick of heat that slides down the back of his throat and spreads sharp and prickly through his chest. It's filthy and harsh, and he has to cough around it, eyes watering violently as he wonders what the hell the bartender gifted them with. It doesn't really help with the sting of rejection, but it does _wonders_ for his courage. 

"Okay, so I can already see that we're not going to be able to fix this like we usually do," Dean grumbles, grabbing Castiel's glass of clear liquid with a sigh. 

"Perhaps we can't fix things at all," Castiel suggests, eyes flicking over to watch Dean down the second glass. "Also, you are aware that you just downed two healthy shots of 190 proof Everclear, yes?" 

Dean starts banging his hand against his chest, coughing harshly as the liquid burns like fire on his insides. As Castiel's words register, his eyes bulge and he leans hard against the tabletop. He can't believe he's drinking Everclear. Two whole fucking _shots._ Last time he did that, he was twenty-two and he'd ended up passing out, only to wake up in some treehouse three states away from where he'd started drinking. There'd been a familiar sting in his ass, he had a black eye, and it took him three hours to find Baby. He'd vowed to never drink Everclear again, which was easy considering it's illegal in most states, like Kansas and fucking _Louisiana._

Still half-wheezing and half-choking, Dean whips around to stare wide-eyed at the bartender who gives him a large grin and a wink, which is about all the confirmation he needs—not that he doubts Castiel. This is...really, _really_ bad. So bad on so many levels. Everclear is just legal moonshine and 190 proof is 95% alcohol! Dean hasn't had this much alcohol intake since Castiel died, and even then, he hadn't taken it in all at once. 

As soon as Dean is sure he can open his mouth without vomiting fire, he blurts out, "Cas, you gotta—you need to take me outta here. I'm 'bout to get real drunk _real_ fast." 

"Oh," Castiel says delicately, "you were not aware." 

"No, I wasn't," Dean snaps, doing his best to sit up straight. His limbs are starting to feel heavy. "Fuck, I'm gonna—I'll do something stupid, or _say_ something stupid. Just—just take us home and don't listen to a word I say." 

"Right now?" Castiel asks. 

_"Please,"_ Dean begs desperately, trying to spill himself out of the booth, eyes blurring briefly. Quietly, he chokes out, "Oh my god." 

Castiel heaves a sigh. "Alright, just stop attempting to walk. You look uncoordinated. Here, lean on me." 

Things go a little fuzzy for a moment, and the next thing Dean knows, Castiel is holding most of his weight, one arm holding his waist while Dean's arm rests across his shoulders, and he's dragging him outside. Dean's head rolls back and he groans loudly, staring up at the ceiling as it eventually breaks away to the night sky as Castiel successfully gets them out of the bar. He's somehow very aware that he's drunk, but also unable to do anything about it. 

Dean wants to thank Castiel for doing this, despite their current feelings towards each other, but what comes out is a very slurred, "Y'so nice, Cas. Feel nice too, like to feel you. S'nice." 

"Dean," Castiel grits out, dragging him towards Baby and leaning him against the driver door, "shut up." 

"Should do that. Gonna do that." 

"Keys?" 

"Pocket." Dean's head lulls forward on his neck, eyes darting about as he groans again. "I don't know where m'pockets are, Cas." 

Castiel rolls his eyes, which makes Dean's head spin, and he starts patting Dean down. It's quick fleeting touches, testing his coat pockets, but Dean looks down to watch, lips parted in awe. It's damn good thing he's in too sloppy of a state to even attempt to sport a boner because just the sight of Castiel's tan, broad hands cupping his sides and sliding down is fucking amazing. Dean's keys are not in his coat, so Castiel grimaces and reaches down to pat at Dean's jeans, feeling the front pockets. His face clears in relief and he shuffles forward to dig in Dean's slightly tight jeans to grasp the keys. 

Castiel pulls out the keys. "Dean, I've got—"

Dean stumbles forward and tries to kiss Castiel, but only succeeds in mashing his nose against Castiel's unfairly sharp jawline. As a whole, this is not the worst mistake his aim has bred—in fact, Dean's like three inches closer to tucking his face into Castiel's collar and maybe never leaving that spot ever again. 

"Can hear you holding your breath," Dean mumbles with a pleased hum, dragging his nose towards Castiel's ear, leaning forward even more. 

"Dean," Castiel says very carefully, after releasing a deep exhale, "what are you doing?" 

"Dunno," Dean admits in a slur, swaying in place, sweating profusely. "Gettin' close, I guess. S'what I want, ya know? To get close to you. Always." 

Castiel grips his shoulders and shoves him back, pushing him away. "You are _very_ drunk, Dean, you do not know what you're saying." 

"Sober mind, drunk mouth. I ain't never told a lie like this," Dean mumbles, eyes snapping open as Castiel releases a deep huff of disbelief. "Wasn't lyin' when I said our sex was good. The _best,_ Cas. No one else can—no one else even compares!" 

"Okay, enough of this," Castiel snaps firmly, hauling Dean away from the door and holding him up while reaching down to yank the driver side door open and stuff Dean in, shoving him to the passenger side. 

Castiel rolls down the window and Dean instantly starts singing at the top of his lungs. "WE COULDA HAD IT ALLLLL, ROLLIN' IN THE DEEP! YOU HAD MY HEART INSIDE OF YOUR HAND, AND YOU PLAYED IT TO THE BEEEEAT!" 

As Baby cranks with a growl, Dean switches to Taylor Swift. "We are never, ever, _ever_ getting back together! We-eeeeh are ne-ever getting back togetherrrr!" 

Castiel resolutely stays silent, and Dean is just fine singing along to the music in his head. "Shot through the heart, and YOU'RE to blame! Angel, you give looove a bad name! A BAD NAME!" 

"Dean—" 

"Oooh, we've got to hold on to what we got!" Dean slings himself to the side, pointing a fumbling hand at Castiel, who looks pained. "It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not; we got each other, and that's A LOT for looooveee! WE'LL GIVE IT A SHOT!" 

"For the love of—Dean, please just—" 

"If I could turn back time," Dean croons, smiling as his eyes drift shut and he lifts his hands, waving like he's got a lighter in hand. "If I could find a wayyy, I'd take back those words that hurt youuuu, oh! And you'd stayyyyy. If I could reach the stars, I'd give 'em all to youuuu. Then you'd love me, LOVE MEEE, oh like you used tooooo. If—if I could— Cas, I swear if I could just turn back time, I'd—" 

Dean's breath hitches on a sob, and the next thing he knows, he's crying harder than he has in a long time. Making choked, broken sounds as he curls into himself and sobs with all his might. 

Castiel awkwardly pats his shoulder and Dean doesn't remember much after that. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cas, I swear on my life," Dean says loudly, poking Castiel in the chest yet again, silently pleased when he backs up another step, "if you don't insult me, I'm gonna bother you until you do." 

The first time Dean wakes up, he realizes that he isn't built for this kind of torture and forces himself to go back to sleep.

The second time, he is still not built for this torture, though it is mildly less, but he's unable to go back to sleep. Instead, he has to lay in a trembling, curled ball and suffer. In agony, he lays there and tries to escape the shrill high-pitched pulse of pain bouncing around his skull, while doing his best to ignore the waves of acid churning in his stomach. He's sweating, still. 

He doesn't know how long he lays there—could be seconds, could be years—but the pain eventually spikes, making his body violently go on self-defense and reject the very thing causing all the issues. Dean hurls to the side of the bed with a whine, only to get surround sound as his head is shoved into a what must be a bucket. Someone starts carding their fingers through his hair, and that feels nice, counteracting the horror show going on inside the bucket, starring the contents of his stomach. 

Eventually, there's nothing left for his body to give, which somehow ends with him _worse._ His head hurts from the strain, his mouth tastes like ass, and his whole body is sore in the way it is after he's been thrown around on some hunt. And he _still_ feels like his stomach is sloshing. 

There's nothing else for it; he goes back to sleep. 

When he resurfaces the third time, things are...not as bad as they were. Moderately better, at least. But relief is relief, and he'll take what he can get.

There's a quiet, shushing sound as he groans and a wet glass presses into his incredibly sore fingers, both of which cause him to creak open his eyes against his better judgement. Eileen is sat next to him, smiling kindly as she holds out her palm with four pills waiting like a gift from the gods. 

"Jesus Christ," he croaks, tilting his head back so she can see his lips move. "Sam better marry you quick; you're a fuckin' goddess." 

Eileen smiles prettily, wide and flashing teeth, and she holds his head up as he gets the pills down. After, she lets him rest his head on her knee and gently massages his forehead while he relaxes. As soon as he's better, Dean's taking Sam to a ring shop. 

Sometime later, the sound of his own breathing stops hurting, and his body is just a dull ache now. He can open his eyes without wanting to gag, so he knows what needs to be done next. Wincing, he sits up and instantly misses Eileen's cool fingers keeping his headache at bay, but he's on a mission. He isn't sweating anymore and he's fully aware of how he _smells,_ like he was dipped in musty alcohol. He needs a shower, a new set of sheets, and a goddamn beer. 

Dean faces Eileen and carefully touches his chin, swinging his hand down in an arc, signing _thank you._

"You're welcome," Eileen whispers, her face twisting in sympathy. "I had my own run-in with Everclear. I know your pain." 

"You're a saint," Dean rasps, carefully pushing himself off the bed and cringing as he stands on his own two feet. 

Eileen stands up swiftly, patting his arm. "Go get cleaned up. I left more medicine. Take it." 

Dean salutes her weakly. "Yes ma'am." 

With yet another smile full of pity, Eileen sweeps out of the room, careful to let the door shut behind her softly. Dean slowly goes about reanimating from his corpse-like state, trying to relearn to be a functional human being. It takes longer than normal, but he eventually does make it to the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth and already feels like he could cry. The shower is a literal gift from—well, not God because he's a dick, but a better benevolent force. Being clean works wonders on him, soothing his aches and making him feel more human, so he goes back to his room to change his sheets, which future-him will thank him for later. 

Once he's ticked off most of his tasks, including taking the pills that Eileen left, Dean is almost back to himself. His body still hurts and he doubts he'll be able to fully shake the hangover until a full night's rest, but this is a great improvement. He knows he won't be eating, though. The mere _thought_ of food makes his stomach recoil in protest. 

It's only as he's heading to the kitchen that Dean allows himself to actually think. 

Stopping in the middle of the hallway, his head a muted pain now, Dean wonders how the fuck he's back at the bunker. The last thing he can clearly remember is taking those two shots of Everclear, then things get fuzzy. He can remember snippets of the night; talking to Castiel, singing, crying, curling up in Baby with Castiel's trenchcoat balled up against his face as he clung to it like a child would their blanky. Dean blinks. 

"Oh god," he chokes out. 

Filled with despair, Dean pushes himself to the kitchen, walking in warily. Fortunately—or unfortunately, he doesn't know yet—Castiel isn't anywhere to be seen. It's just Sam and Eileen, both sitting at the table, drinking coffee. They look up when he comes in. 

"Mornin'," Sam says easily. 

Dean grunts. "Where's Cas?" 

"He went out about an hour ago. He said he'd be back later, which I am inclined to believe because he left his stuff here," Sam informs him. 

"Oh." Dean relaxes slightly and drags himself over to the table, snagging Sam's coffee and taking a light sip. Sam must really feel bad for him because he doesn't comment. "So...what exactly happened?" 

Sam shares a look with Eileen. "Well, Cas showed up here last night with a _very_ drunk you in tow. Like, I don't think I've ever seen you that messed up before, Dean. According to him, you two went to kill the witch that started all this shit—which you apparently did—and the local bartender gave you a couple of shots to thank you. Except Cas doesn't drink, and you weren't paying attention, and then you...well, you got _fucked up,_ so to speak." 

"Everclear is very potent," Eileen says, nodding. 

"How—how bad was it?" Dean mumbles, grimacing and rubbing at his throbbing temple. "With Cas, I mean. Please tell me I didn't...do anything insane." 

"We can't say what happened before you got here, but Cas didn't seem _too_ upset." Sam gave him an awkward smile. "And once you were here, you kinda just...well, you were very, uh, lovey-dovey." 

Dean narrows his eyes. "Lovey-dovey? _Me?"_

"You're a very friendly drunk," Eileen tells him with a snort, tilting her head in amusement, "if not a bit trashy. Kind of a mess, but lovable all the same. Or you are when you're _that_ drunk, at least." 

"What did I do?" Dean asks. 

"Well, you told us all how much you loved us," Sam says, lips twitching as he fights a smile. "Eileen was very badass and pretty, I was very smart and the reason you breathe, apparently, and Cas was very special and the best thing that ever happened to you. Also, you tried to get us all to dance with you at some point, which honestly was the highlight of my life." 

"It was pretty cute," Eileen agrees. 

Dean groans. "Oh fuck, just shoot me now." 

"It's fine, Dean," Sam murmurs, chuckling warmly and rolling his eyes. "Cas said it wasn't your fault, and besides, it _was_ kinda funny. In an endearing way. Cas was trying not to show how fond he was, but I saw it. Pretty obvious when you look for it, y'know. Still can't believe I never noticed." 

"I never—I didn't get to fix things," Dean mumbles, bracing his head in his hands and staring blankly down into Sam's mug. "I have no idea what the fuck I said to him last night. It—it probably wasn't what I was planning. Jesus, he's gonna _hate_ me." 

"Well, I have a case I want to go check out later, something quick, and Sam's being overbearing, so you'll be alone with him to fix it." Eileen reaches over and pats Dean's hand. "I'm sure he'll forgive you for anything you said while drunk." 

"I'm not being _overbearing,_ I'm just—" Sam releases a deep breath and scowls. "I just want to make sure you're okay, that's all. I—I know you're very capable, but you only _just_ got back." 

Eileen pulls away from Dean's hand to pat Sam's, then lets their fingers twine together as she says, "I know it comes from a place of love, and I'll let it go _for now._ But you'll need to let me have some breathing room if you don't want me to take off on my own. It's not how I operate, you _know_ that, Sam." 

Sam swallows thickly and nods. "No, yeah, I do. I guess I'm just…" 

"Scared," Eileen prompts, smiling gently. "It's okay, we all are. We'll work on it." 

Dean watches them in something akin to fascination, gaze pinging between them like a pinball. They're so... _healthy,_ just addressing a problem like it's not going to be the end of them, not even arguing. Maybe it's because Sam is well-rounded, or because Eileen isn't accusing, or maybe it's because they care about each other and want to work on the things that cause them issues without letting it come between them. And for a brief moment, Dean's so devastatingly jealous that he can't even see straight. 

_We'll work on it._ Already a unit, facing problems together, and they haven't even been partners for as long as Dean and Castiel have stood side-by-side to face each world-ending force that's come at them. It's not fair. He doesn't begrudge them their ease, not when they're clearly happy and perfect together, but he's so envious that he can taste the souring _want_ for that same ease with Castiel in the back of his throat. 

"You still look like a wreck," Sam says, throwing Dean a worried glance. "You should probably go get some more rest if you're gonna be on better feet when you face Cas. Keep your head clear, I mean." 

"Yeah, that's—that's a good idea," Dean mumbles, suddenly desperate to get away from the perfect couple, standing shakily to his feet. "Just be careful on the case, and call me or Cas if _anything_ goes wrong. And...thanks, I guess." 

"No problem," Sam tells him with an easy grin. 

"Great, now _Dean's_ being overbearing," Eileen mutters, rolling her eyes. 

As he passes her, he pauses to lean down and smack a kiss on the top of her head. Dean leans back to peer into her eyes, smiling. "Welcome to the family." 

He walks away, and Sam laughs quietly before saying, "Trust me, you get used to it." 

* * *

When he wakes up this time, Dean has no idea what time it is, but his internal clock is having a _fit._ He knows he's slept too long, trying to get back to normal after Everclear threw his ass into the dirt. But thankfully, he does feel a lot better. 

Dean hops up out of the bed with a spring in his step, checking his phone to see what time it is. Late in the evening and probably the longest he's slept without being knocked out in _years._ Sam leaves a text letting him know their location, when they left, and when they should be returning—a tension Dean hadn't even been aware eases out of his shoulders. 

He's pretty sure that he can actually keep some food down, so that's his first goal of the day. Maybe make him a stacked sandwich and drink a beer, take some time to relax a little. After the shitty few days he's had, he thinks he could do with it. 

That idea quickly gets derailed when he rounds the corner out of his room and smacks straight into Castiel, who's looming outside his door like a fucking weirdo. 

"Cas, what the hell?" Dean barks, reaching up to rub his forehead that had bounced firmly off of Castiel's. 

Castiel blinks at him. "I apologize. I was about to check on you again, as Sam requested." 

Dean frowns. "Sam asked you to keep an eye out for me?" 

"Well, yes," Castiel says casually. "We—he was worried that the Everclear was causing you pain." 

"Was he now?" Dean asks, lips twitching. "Funny, he never said anything like that to me earlier." 

Castiel averts his eyes. "I was not aware that you had woken up before now. I thought you had been asleep for the duration of the day." 

"You were worried about me," Dean notes smugly, snorting when Castiel stiffens. "I mean, you had all rights to be. Everclear ain't no joke. About that… I, uh, don't really know what—or if I said anything, and I guess I just wanted to say I...I wasn't in my right mind, ya know?" 

"I am aware of your inebriated state and paid it no mind," Castiel assures him tersely. 

"I didn't—I mean, did I do anything?" 

"You did plenty." 

"Yeah, I got that." Dean scratches the side of his neck with one finger, clearing his throat. "I just mean, did I do or say anything to _you?"_

"Dean," Castiel says slowly, carefully, "I don't believe that you would want to know, if I'm honest." 

"Great, it's _that_ bad," Dean mumbles, cringing. 

"You did quite a lot of singing," Castiel murmurs, a certain glint of amusement in his eyes that Dean's come to realize is light mockery. 

Dean grunts. "Yeah, I remember some of that, I think. If you ever cared about me, you'll keep exactly _what_ I sang between us." 

There's an abrupt silence in the space separating their bodies, filling with thick tension, and Dean wishes he never opened his stupid fucking mouth. _If you ever cared about me…_ Why, why, why had he said that? Most of all, what does it say about them that he's naturally insinuating that Castiel no longer cares about him? 

"Well," Castiel snaps sharply, "I'll leave you to whatever it is you are planning to do." 

Dean watches him walk away, lips pursing and twisting at the bitterness spreading through his chest. Castiel is back to ignoring him, just like that, like nothing has changed between them. It has, he _knows_ it has, and none of this is fair. 

Before he knows what he's doing, he's following after Castiel, falling into step right behind him. "Ya know, Cas, I actually think I'm planning to follow you around until you decide to fucking talk to me. Seems like I ain't got no choice but to resort to this since you're being so fucking childish." 

"There's nothing for us to discuss," Castiel growls out, picking up his pace, staring resolutely ahead. 

"Fat chance," Dean blurts out with a huff of laughter that's more sardonic than humor. "There's plenty for us to cover; take your goddamn pick. How about the fact that God—your runaway dad, need I remind you—is actually public enemy number one? Or what really happened down in Hell when Rowena died and Jack's body never came back up? Or maybe how you've pretty much been doing your best to ignore me like I don't even exist to you anymore?" 

Castiel whirls around, eyes blazing with anger, causing Dean to jerk to a halt. "Do _not_ pester me, Dean, I am in no mood." 

"Don't care." Dean spreads his hands wide. "You ain't got anywhere to go, and I'm not leaving you alone, so might as well just—" 

"God is just another force that needs to be eradicated," Castiel spits, eyes narrowing into accusing slits. "Belphagor betrayed us, as I said he would, and he needed to be handled—so I took care of it. As for treating you in such a manner...well, I'm simply acting to you as you have me. There is a certain irony to your displeasure." 

With that, Castiel pivots and starts marching up the hall again, but Dean's not having it. "Glad you're enjoying this so much," he snaps as he rushes to follow Castiel again. "And I deserve it, I'll give you that, but I'm not treating you like that _now,_ am I? Cas, I fucking apologized, I—" 

"I am uninterested in your apologies," Castiel interrupts firmly, leading them into the foyer. He makes a beeline for the table with the world map glowing on it. "As I said, perhaps we can't fix it, and it's not quite my priority to try. If you'll excuse me, I have research to do." 

"No, fuck you." Dean lunges forward and catches Castiel's arm, jerking him around. "I'm not about to stand here and accept that. We've been through too much, so you can be an asshole if you want. But you're gonna listen to what I gotta say." 

"Dean—" 

"My mom _died._ Again. And it—it wasn't okay. Nothing about what came after was okay, either. I know you're capable of understating grief; I know you feel it for Jack. You know how it feels, how it—it fucks you up. Cas, I'm _fucked up._ I know you know that, have always known that, so you can't be _that_ surprised that I turned all my grief into fucking anger. 'Cause that's what I do, right?" 

Castiel clenches his jaw and turns his head, refusing to look at Dean. Still, softly, he says, "I'm sorry about Mary, I truly am. I wish…it hadn't happened." 

"Me too," Dean admits, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "That ain't all I'm sorry for, Cas." 

"I don't—I can't do this," Castiel hisses out, his voice low but harsh, eyes downturned to the side to avoid looking at Dean. "I have _nothing_ kind to say to you, and despite what you may believe, I do not wish to cause you any pain." 

That hits Dean hard, far harder than he expects. It brings tears to the back of his eyes, pricking sharp and hot. The fact that Castiel can barely look at him, that he has nothing nice to say, that he's as upset as he's ever been with Dean...it's all fucking _terrible._ Nothing feels like it can be salvaged, but Dean's ready to cradle every broken piece in his hands and make something out of it. And maybe he's late, maybe he's even _too_ late, but he's too stubborn to just let it go, not when Castiel means _this_ much. 

"Okay, so—so say it," Dean croaks out, taking in a deep breath. "Say all the shit you want to say, the rude and horrible and _mean_ shit. I did, didn't I? You can, Cas, you deserve that." 

Castiel finally looks up at him, blue eyes hardening as he stares at Dean. "No," he says firmly. 

"Just fuckin' say it, Cas." 

_"No."_

Dean takes a step forward and pokes Castiel in the chest, jabbing him hard enough that he takes a step back. "You got shit you need to say, so speak your fucking mind!" 

Again, rougher, Castiel growls, "No." 

"Cas, I swear on my _life,"_ Dean says loudly, poking Castiel in the chest yet again, silently pleased when he backs up another step, "if you don't insult me, I'm gonna bother you until you do." 

"I will _not_ partake in your need to be degraded, nor will I resort to harming those that I—that do not require the energy," Castiel insists, glare flicking down when Dean pokes him in the chest again. 

Castiel backs into the table, but Dean draws closer still. "Maybe you don't think you do, but you need to get this off your chest, Cas." 

"No." Castiel smacks Dean's finger away, scowling when Dean swings it right back up and pokes him again, taking another step forward. "You're not going to push me to release my frustrations on you. Unlike _you,_ Dean, I can control my anger." 

"That's a start, what else?" Dean pokes Castiel again, pressing in closer, pushing and pushing and pushing, waiting for Castiel to snap. 

That results in a scuffle as, with a low grunt, Castiel grabs his wrist and yanks his finger away. Dean's a little shit though, so he brings his other hand up to poke Castiel's chest, and Castiel huffs as he tries to use his free hand to grasp Dean's other wrist. He's getting increasingly frustrated, looking ready to blow a gasket, and Dean _knows_ it shouldn't be so amusing. When Castiel _does_ finally explode, Dean's probably going to hate what he hears. 

But Dean knows this is necessary. He's already said the worst things he can to Castiel, and the favor needs to be returned if they're ever going to move past it. Sure, it's unhealthy as fuck, but Dean is slowly starting to figure out what works for them. So, insistently, he pokes at Castiel's chest and avoids the hand that chases after. 

Castiel is quick, however, and he manages to snag Dean's wrist in a hard grip. Just like that, Castiel has both wrists in his hands, and he lets out a small victorious huff at that, only to grunt as Dean starts tugging at his wrists and flailing around slightly. Castiel is insane if he thinks that Dean's going to make this _easy_ for him. 

This has somehow delved into a challenge without Dean's permission, but he's too late to backtrack. 

Castiel jerks Dean's wrists down between them, pushing them out and away, which is probably the most strategic move considering that Dean's fighting him tooth and nail. However, it turns out to be a mistake of a different variety. At the new positioning, they're far too close together, faces mere inches apart, chests brushing. In the span of a few short seconds, the atmosphere does a complete one-eighty. 

Dean stops moving, going still and swallowing thickly as he stares into Castiel's wide blue eyes. They're not moving, not even really breathing, but the tension is as thick as it is when they're fighting. 

_Kiss me, kiss me, please fucking kiss me,_ Dean thinks desperately, probably broadcasting that plea openly on his face without even meaning to. 

It's like every moment before, back when they'd been without memories, arguing until the tension was seconds from boiling over. Dean never really knows if they're going to kiss, or if they're going to throw punches, both feeling interchangeable in these moments. Frozen in place, internally begging, Dean waits with a bated breath to see what will happen. 

"Dean…" Castiel says softly, anger still bright in his gaze, but a wariness creeping in as well. 

"Cas," Dean breathes in response, not really thinking about how he sounds, not really thinking at all. 

Dean has absolutely no idea who moves first, but they're abruptly crashing together to kiss, and it feels so fucking _good_ that Dean lets out a long, drawn-out groan of relief. Castiel releases his hands to reach up and grip the sides of Dean's neck, thumbs digging into his jaw to hold him in place, dragging him closer to deepen the kiss. He bites Dean's lower lip _hard,_ only to immediately lick over the indentions his teeth leave behind, then repeat the process. 

It's t-minus ten seconds before Dean's knees give out, so he makes the decision to pull Castiel roughly away from the table, jerk them around to switch positions, and use one hand and Castiel's help to lever himself up on the table. All the while, Castiel roughly plunders his mouth, and Dean's so fucking on board with that it's not even funny. 

Dean spreads his knees and Castiel immediately steps in between them, one hand digging into Dean's thigh while the other keeps a firm grip on his neck. Helplessly, Dean braces one hand behind him, landing somewhere on Russia to hold himself up, and his free hand pushes into Castiel's annoyingly scratchy suit-jacket to paw at his side and back, dragging him in as close as he can get. 

This is somehow nothing at all like their first time, yet so reminiscent of it. Dean's just as sucked into Castiel's orbit as he was the last time, going mindless, helpless to the yearning and desire that snaps like a cord within him. He sinks into this moment, clings to it, because it feels like maybe they can fix things after all, if not more. 

Their bodies meld together perfectly as Dean arches up into Castiel, giving into his harsh kiss without much of a fight, welcoming it with a moan. If this is Castiel saying what he needs to say, then Dean's going to piss him off more often. 

Castiel bites his bottom lip once more, a thing he's taken to apparently, and there's blood when he stops this time. It's only a small amount from what Dean can tell, but Castiel jerks back like he's done something unforgivable. 

"No, no, it's fine." Dean hastily licks his bottom lip and lifts his hand out of Castiel's coat to grasp the front of his shirt, yanking him forward. "See? It's gone. Just—just keep—" 

Castiel's eyebrows furrow. "You're still bleeding. Allow me." 

Dean releases a soft sigh when Castiel leans forward and runs his warm, wet tongue over Dean's bottom lip. The skin heats slightly with the warm glow that Dean recognizes as Castiel's grace, and that's so fucking _hot_ that he's pretty sure that he's seconds from turning into jello. When Castiel pulls away, Dean holds on tight, interlocking his ankles behind Castiel's waist, above his ass; come hell or high water, he is _not_ letting Castiel back off, not now. 

"Cas, you can't stop now," Dean says. 

"I don't intend to," Castiel replies, arching an eyebrow, lips tightening. 

He's still angry, so angry, and Dean _knows_ how wrong it is to find that enticing. He wants—he just _wants,_ and Castiel seems to be in the mood to give. 

Castiel leans forward and gets his lips on Dean's throat, just beneath the bolt of his jaw, and Dean's eyes flutter as he tilts his head back. There will be marks, Dean can feel it. Castiel is sucking hard and biting at sensitive skin, seemingly intending to leave bruises up and down the column of Dean's throat. Dean is one hundred percent okay with that. 

The room is so goddamn _hot,_ and he feels like he can't breathe. Castiel is touching him everywhere, anywhere, over his clothes, and his lips are busy feasting, and Dean is gonna lose his fucking _mind_ if this is all there is. He's so hard he can hammer nails, and his jeans are uncomfortably tight around his crotch. He's ready to push this along, the intensity and heat getting to him. 

"Cas, just—just fucking _do_ something," Dean demands roughly, yanking at Castiel's hair, jerking when he bites harder over a sore spot. "Fuck, shit, please just—" 

Castiel shuts him up by picking his head up and kissing him, still hard and hot as before but without as much teeth, and Dean forgets about demanding anything. His eyes close and he sways forward, supple and fully okay with letting Castiel do whatever the fuck he wants. 

Pulling away, Castiel grits out, "Stop talking _."_

Dean's lips break into a smile as his chest heaves, feeling a little dazed, and Castiel narrows his eyes. Biting his lower lip and walking the edge of being an asshole and delectable, just as he knows he is, Dean does the one thing he somehow instinctively knows will make Castiel finally, _fully_ snap. 

Dean pokes him in the chest. 

For a split second, he's sure that he's gone too far. Castiel's jaw ticks as he glances down at Dean's finger, and his hands clamp down on Dean's thighs, blunt fingers digging in through the fabric. 

Then Castiel releases a harsh breath, his nostrils flaring, and he jerks Dean forward by his legs, bringing them groin-to-groin. This is just far enough, Dean thinks, lips parting around a groan as his head falls back and Castiel rolls his hips forward. 

"Fuck," Dean hisses, picking his head up to look at Castiel, breathing heavily. "We should do that. Cas, we should—you should fuck me. You really, _really—"_

"Shut _up,_ Dean," Castiel rumbles, voice so thick and cutting that his words shake. 

Dean leans forward, pushing himself up until they're nose-to-nose and breathing the same air. With a hint of challenge blazing in his eyes, he softly says, "You gonna make me, Cas? Huh? You gonna fuck me silent? I know you can; you did last time. Come on, make me speechless again." 

Castiel simply looks at him for a long moment, then he drags his hand up Dean's thighs, hooking on his hips and clenching tight. Dean holds his breath, heart pounding wildly in his chest. They've done this before when they were memory-less, but it feels so new and _exciting._ It's hard for him to grasp—but almost not at all—that he's been with multiple people in his life, yet he's never wanted them as much as he wants Castiel. 

With an unexpected tug on his hips, Castiel suddenly yanks him right off the table and out of his own head, planting him on his feet. Dean blinks at him, a curl of uncertainty and despair at _another_ possible rejection burrowing in his chest like a worm finds home in an apple. He's about to say something, anything, when Castiel twists him around by his hips so that Dean's facing the table with his back to Castiel's front. 

Castiel presses a gentle kiss to Dean's neck, just below his ear, and then without any warning whatsoever, he puts his hand in the middle of Dean's back and _shoves._

Dean lands with his hands splayed by his head, and he hisses, _"Jesus Christ,"_ as he stares at the outline of China. 

Castiel isn't wasting any time. He grabs the seat of Dean's jeans and yanks them harshly, and Dean cants his hips up to help the process. His dick finally, thankfully springs free, which makes him keen in a brief daze of pleasure. Cool air wafts over his ass and the small of his back where his shirt has rode up. His swallow clicks in the back of his throat, anticipation skittering up and down his spine. 

"Do not be alarmed," Castiel warns. 

Dean's not sure what the fuck he's talking about at first, but then he feels it. A strange sensation of slick warmth _in_ his ass. "Cas, what the fuck?" he blurts out. "Did you just mojo lube up my ass?" 

"I'm still able to do some party tricks," Castiel mutters, sounding slightly bitter. 

For the first time since they started kissing, Dean feels unsettled. _Still?_ Why wouldn't he? Dean's about to ask what he means by that, but there's suddenly a finger in his ass and all cognitive thought goes out the window. 

Castiel is not gentle, he is not slow. It's just on the edge of being too much, but it never hurts. It just takes up all of Dean's ability to think, leaving him to only feel as Castiel efficiently opens his up. Dean presses his forehead to the Russia and China border, groaning low in his throat and pushing back against Castiel as he adds a second finger. 

"Yes, yes, do it," Dean chants, grunting when Castiel spreads his fingers. "Fuck, Cas, please just—" 

The fingers disappear. There's a quiet rustling of fabric, the drag of a zipper, and Dean tries not to picture what he looks like right now. Still mostly dressed, sprawled out over most of the world map, ass on display, eager and waiting. Some part of him wants to be embarrassed, but that's easily drowned out by how fucking much he wants this. 

Castiel kicks his feet apart, spreads his asscheeks open, then presses forward. He's not opened up enough for this to go easily, but he wants the bite of pain that comes with Castiel pushing in. It's not unbearable and it does something funny to Dean's head, makes him go a little floaty and claw at the table mindlessly. He's sweating already, panting, wanting Castiel to go faster but also drag it out forever. He feels all of it, every inch, and it hurts so, _so_ good. 

"Dean," Castiel breathes once he's bottomed out, the scratchy fabric of his pants brushing the backs of Dean's thighs. He sounds blissed out, reverent, adoring. "Oh, _Dean."_

"Fuck," Dean chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching around Castiel's length. He's adjusting, slowly but surely, and his dick being trapped between his body and the steadily warming tabletop is helping more than he'd expected it to. There's pressure on each intimate part of his body, _in_ him, and Dean wants to feel the aftereffects for days after this. He wants to be wrung out and sore. "Come on, Cas, fuck me. _Fuck me."_

Castiel must still be angry because he's still being rough, still holding Dean in an unyielding grip. He braces his hands on Dean's hips, nails digging in, and _god,_ Dean hopes they'll leave little indents in his skin that he'll be able to feel with every step. But that's for later; for now, Castiel does as Dean demanded, pulling out of him and pushing his way right back in. 

Dean chokes on an inhale, air punching out of him as Castiel starts up an unforgiving pace, just barely giving him enough time to adjust. It's on the knife's edge of being too fucking much, but Dean is so far gone that he wants more. Harder, faster, deeper. Castiel isn't pushing it too far, possibly still in control despite everything, keeping it to the point where Dean can still handle it, but just barely. 

Castiel fucks him, unrelenting and hard, his speed never stuttering as he slams into Dean over and over. Dean feels like he's on fire, gasping, his eyes rolling around unseeingly, crying out and moaning helplessly. Sweat clings to his skin and makes the tabletop wet, allowing his body to glide up and down in short little bursts as Castiel rolls his way in and wrecks him from the inside out. 

"Dean, _Dean,"_ Castiel growls out, sounding a little out of it himself. One of his hands abandons Dean's hips to reach up and grab the back of his neck, pressing down ever so slightly. "You feel—this feels so _good."_

Dean whimpers as the slight change in position makes his dick slide back and forth against the table, a smooth ride due to his sweat and precum. Frantically, he reaches back to fumble for Castiel's hand on his hip, grasping at his wrist and holding on for dear life. There's a nip at the back of his arm, just above his elbow that sways in the air, and Dean's not at all prepared for that to be an erogenous zone—though it shouldn't be a surprise; his entire body tingles like a livewire right now. The sharp nip makes him yelp, only for that to transform into a moan as Castiel breaks stride and speeds up. 

Castiel goes harder and faster, and Dean is _definitely_ going to be feeling this for a couple of days. His whole body is straining and the slight rutting against the table his dick gets is torture in the best way. His orgasm builds up in his hips, hot and sharp, and he sucks in a sharp breath, feeling lightheaded. Tears are gathering at the corner of his eyes, and he doesn't know if it's from the waves of pleasure that overtakes him, or from how close this is to being just a little too much. 

"Cas, yes, just—just like that. Fuck!" Dean bucks as Castiel starts fucking him earnest, hips stuttering. He's close. "Oh shit, fuck, _fuck!"_

Castiel suddenly grips him harder by the back of his neck and yanks him up, the hand on his hip raising to hold him tight around his chest. Dean drops Castiel's wrist and fumbles for his own dick, jerking his length hard and fast as Castiel fucks up into him at a new angle, pressing tight over his prostate. 

Dean comes with a shout, fucking his own fist as Castiel slams into him three more times, then pulls out to come all over Dean's ass. They moan in unison; Dean's is weak and shaky, Castiel's is rough and tumble with pleasure. 

Immediately after, he's ready to drop. His whole body feels boneless, like he'll sink into a pile of trembling skin if Castiel lets him go. When he blinks open his eyes, he sees the stain of his own orgasm all over France, and he can feel Castiel's sticky mess on his ass. His body rattles and shakes as he catches his breath, his mind still not back online. 

"Wait here," Castiel orders gruffly. 

When Castiel lets him go, Dean stumbles forward and has to grip the side of the table with trembling arms to hold himself up. Castiel's clothes rustle yet again, the zipper drags once more, and then he's gone. Dean stands there and stares at France with wide eyes, heart racing in his chest. 

Castiel isn't gone long. He's back soon and wipes over Dean's ass with a hand towel, cleaning up his mess. Still, Dean does not turn around and look at him, his brain scrambled and feelings fighting valiantly to rise to the surface. 

The towel lands by Dean's wrist, right on top of Africa, and then he's walking away. That's when Dean looks over his shoulder. Standing just like that, with his orgasm all over France, his pants around his thighs, and his softened dick hanging, he watches Castiel walk away and disappear down the hall. 

Slowly, Dean cleans himself and pulls up his pants, then washes off France. Later, he'll sanitize it before Sam and Eileen can return. But for now, he stands alone in the foyer and tries not to cry. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean shakes his head, pressing his lips together to hold back a wounded noise. "No, no, it's not 'cause he shoulda been out by now. They—they won't tell me anything, and—and I think he's—" 

Castiel is gone. Again. 

Dean doesn't really know what to do, where to go from here. Life, unfortunately, isn't as simple as having sex and fixing everything. He wishes it was; everything would be a lot simpler if it were. 

After he gets his wits about him—which, thanks to Castiel’s knack for fucking his brains out, takes a little while—he gets a shower that feels amazing against his sore body. Everything twinges pleasantly and that delightful ache won't be going away anytime soon. Then he grabs cleaning supplies and gets started on sanitizing the table, that way he won't feel guilty the next time Sam passes out face-down on it amongst research. 

Once he's kept himself busy for two hours, he doesn't have any other choice besides worrying where the hell Castiel went. 

Dean's not above tracking him again. 

It turns out that Castiel hasn't gone far. As a matter of fact, he's still at the bunker, just up the long, winding path that Sam likes to run along in the mornings. Dean has no idea why Castiel is there, but he's shoving his feet into his boots and heading to the door before he can think twice about it. His ass throbs in satisfaction as he goes. 

He has absolutely no idea what he's going to say or do when he finds Castiel. Everything is a mess now, even more so than before. 

Dean suddenly, _desperately_ aches for when they were without memories. Back when they went from one shitty motel to the next, learning themselves and each other, crossing lines they never knew were drawn. Falling in love, or expanding on the already existing feelings, or both. Exploring each other without restraint, oblivious to the history and divide that sits between them now. He remembers putting his lips to Castiel’s skin, feeling the warmth against his mouth, kissing lovingly and believing he'd been doing it all along. 

He craves that. All of it and more. 

What they're doing now feels like a cheap copy of it, so close to the real thing, but twisted with cascading emotions they weren't privy to back then. Dean's thankful for it—he can't help but feel grateful for whatever he gets—but it burns him from the inside out to know what it _could_ be. 

Castiel is standing beneath a tree, his palm pressed against the aging bark. The lowest limb dips low, leaves blotting out most of his form. His back is to Dean, his head is ducked down, and his body is one tense line of a warning not to be approached. Dean's danger-gauge has been fucked up for years, so he approaches anyway. 

He doesn't know what to say, so he's silent as he comes to a stop beside him. Castiel doesn't look at him, doesn't even move, and Dean just stares out at the leaf-covered path as he breathes. For a long time, they just stand there in silence, side-by-side, gazing out at the leaves drifting down on the path. 

Carefully, Dean plucks up the courage to ask, "Will you walk with me?" 

"Yes," Castiel says softly. 

Something in Dean settles at that. It's not a sign that things are okay, not by a long shot, but it's a start. As he takes a step out on the trail, Castiel joins him. They stroll along, shoulders brushing, back to being silent as they walk together. 

There's a lot of things that Dean wants to say, but they all feel selfish. It's shitty to think about, but he doesn't think he's given Castiel the chance to talk about what he wants throughout this entire thing. He's been so scared that Castiel will want to leave him that he's never considered stopping and _listening._ Dean has a feeling that maybe he's bad about doing that, and maybe that's a big part of the reason Castiel is so upset with him. 

"Cas...are you okay?" Dean asks quietly, still looking straight ahead, his words weighted and serious. 

"No," Castiel admits. 

Dean swallows. "Do you want to tell me about it?" 

"No," Castiel repeats, "I don't." 

"Okay," Dean murmurs. 

The silence stretches between them yet again, a gaping abyss that Dean despises with all the anger he's capable of harnessing. He has no clue how to cross it, how to shorten the distance between them. He's beginning to think that he can't, that Castiel is going to have to do it. And Dean knows from experience that doing so isn't a walk in the park. 

It's cliche and—in his opinion—a bit too romantic for his tastes, but he's starting to realize that maybe he needs to get out of his comfort zone if he wants things to change. That's why he doesn't try to talk himself out of the urge to grasp Castiel's hand. It's more about wanting to be supportive, to be a source of comfort, than it is just desiring to touch him—though that's definitely motivation as well. There's an awkward fumble that makes Dean's entire face explode with heat, but he eventually manages to slide his hand into Castiel's—he doesn't thread their fingers together, just lets their palms rest against one another. Castiel's hand stays lax and doesn't return the grip, but he doesn't pull away either. 

"Is this okay?" Dean whispers, his voice barely raised above the wind, the moment too fragile to risk ruining. His heart races in his chest and he's gripping Castiel's hand probably too tight, but fuck if he isn't proud that he's actually doing it. 

Castiel's hand suddenly grips his and squeezes, returning the hold. "Yes," he says. 

Dean looks down at his boots and smiles. "Good." 

"I think there's something wrong with me, Dean," Castiel rasps, his hand holding on tighter, genuine fear in his tone, and Dean's smile falters. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I—I tried to tell you before, but you didn't want to listen to what I had to say." 

Dean grimaces. "I should have. I'm gonna listen now, Cas, I promise. What's wrong?" 

"There's something wrong with—with my grace." Castiel suddenly comes to a halt, tugging Dean back a step so they're stopped beside each other. Automatically turning, Dean catches sight of the concern in Castiel's gaze. "It's become a struggle to use my grace for even the simplest of things. Healing causes me strain, and—and I have started to feel physical pain in a way I did not before." 

"Is it God?" Dean stares at Castiel, feeling helpless and uncertain. "Is he, like, cutting you off? Or...or are you _losing_ it?" 

"I...don't know," Castiel admits in a gravelly croak, the words solemn and hopeless. "Whatever it is, it cannot be good for—for all of us. I may not be able to help as much as I should when the time comes, and I worry I may fail once again. I'm unreliable, Dean, and I don't know how to fix it." 

Dean's eyebrows draw together. "Hey, don't—don't think like that, man. If there's something wrong, we figure it out; that's what we do. And if we can't, we deal with it. Your _grace_ might be unreliable right now, but you ain't. We can...work it out." 

"I don't like how it feels." Castiel squeezes Dean's hand tighter, like it's his lifeline, and he looks away as his throat bobs. "I feel powerless. It's like…I'm losing my purpose, like I'm becoming useless." 

"Human, angel, or somewhere in between...it doesn't matter, Cas." Dean edges closer cautiously, dipping his head to catch Castiel's gaze. "You ain't useless, you won't _ever_ be useless, no matter what. And if we can, we'll fix it." 

"Would you have felt this way before?" Castiel asks quietly, looking displeased. 

"I don't know," Dean admits, feeling like shit for the truth in his words. "I'd like to—to think I would, and on some level, I'm _positive_ I would. But everything's kinda different now, and I can't be sure."

Castiel quirks a hollow smile. "There seems to be much that we can't be sure of. It appears to be a running theme for us." 

"Yeah, it does." Dean squeezes Castiel's hand and pulls him into a calm stroll. His stomach ties itself in knots as he drowns in his worry for Castiel's situation. Guilt nearly gags him; he should've listened before. "We're gonna do research, and we're gonna look into it, Cas, I swear. I—I won't rest until we have some kinda solution." 

"I appreciate that, but it isn't our main priority right now. I will be sparingly with my grace, in case I need it for Chuck. Perhaps after we—if we handle yet another evil, then I can search for a solution." 

"It might not be _your_ priority, but it's mine. And I'm gonna help you figure it out." 

Castiel sighs. "There may be no point in wasting the resources. I may not survive what's coming." 

"Don't—don't say that," Dean snaps, throat going tight at the very possible reality that Castiel flippantly presents him with. "We're gonna handle it, all of us, and it's—it's gonna be okay. It has to be." 

"You seem to be singing a different tune than a mere month ago," Castiel muses. 

"Yeah, well, Sam put some things in perspective. And I guess...well, I kinda think I'd like to live a life Chuck has no control over. Don't you?" 

"I do." 

Dean licks his lips, clearing his throat. "D'ya think he's the reason we're, uh, so...ya know? I just mean, do you think it's 'cause of him we're so...close?" 

"No, Dean, I don't." Castiel's eyes flicker down as his lips curl up just so. "I believe that happened whilst he wasn't paying attention." 

"Tearing up the script, huh? Writing our own story?" 

"Something like that." 

"You know, I...uh, I was worried that you were just another plot device," Dean admits warily, throwing Castiel a guilty look. "I figured he was just...using you like he pleased. I didn't know what was real." 

"I know." 

"Then you said that we were. And—and I think I was too scared to hope you were right." 

"But I was." Castiel looks up at Dean with a serious frown, that fucking stupidly adorable wrinkle between his eyebrows. "We are real. We always have been. I know that, even if I'm not sure of anything else. Perhaps everything else—all the deaths, all the cases, all the prophecies—was his doing, but he has no powers over what we _feel._ He can't fabricate us; he simply created us and laid out the paths we were meant to take. What we found along the way belongs entirely to us. To all of us." 

Dean blinks, a little stunned by Castiel's blunt reasonings. "Dude, that's...really fucking smart. Dunno why I didn't see it that way." 

"Because you see yourself in a certain light." Castiel's face twists in a brief flash of pain. "Chuck planned for you to—to kill Jack, but he did not anticipate the depth of your love for him. He wanted a story that came full circle—Dean Winchester's beginning of life with his brother and father to avenge Mary Winchester to Dean Winchester's ending of avenging her once again, repeating a cycle of harming an innocent child to do it. But you didn't." 

"I—I couldn't." Dean swallows _hard,_ his throat clogged with a lump. "I shouldn't have ever—" 

"No, you shouldn't have. And Mary should have never died. But Chuck wrote it that way." Castiel squeezes Dean's hand once again, his tone light. "I think the important part is the feelings that came through despite all of his intentions." 

"When the time comes, he's going to pay for everything he ever put us through," Dean vows, kicking a stray stick with his boot as they continue along the path hand-in-hand. He clears his throat. "And Cas, I'm sorry I ever doubted you...doubted _us."_

Castiel is silent for a moment, then he sighs. "I feel there is a lot I should apologize for. That both of us have to regret. If we were to try, it would take all day. Furthermore, we have no way of knowing what is his fault or our own choosing. All we _can_ be sure of is how we feel about the moments that have carried us to here. It's why I've forgiven you for your actions with Jack, yet I'm still so angry about them."

"I'm angry too, Cas. About a lot. But I'm—I want to be okay again. Me and you; I—I miss you." 

Castiel doesn't say anything in reply. He presses his lips into a thin line, and Dean looks away with a heavy sigh. Being tethered by hands doesn't stop Dean from feeling as if they're back to being distant. He keeps ruining their progress, but he doesn't know _how._ He just wants to—to… 

Shit, he's doing it again, demanding things that he wants without considering Castiel's own wishes. 

"Cas," Dean chokes out, dread and wariness flaring out through his whole body, "that's what _I_ want. But I gotta ask… What do _you_ want?" 

"I want you to answer my question," Castiel says, pulling Dean to a halt, stepping forward to look at him with intensity. "This is what you shy away from, but I fear I can't be okay without knowing. I asked you once if you were in love with me, and I'm only going to ask you once more. It doesn't matter what your answer is, only that you stay long enough to help me understand." 

Dean freezes in place, his heart in his throat, holding his breath. "Cas…" he whispers, eyes wide. 

"Are you in love with me, Dean?" Castiel searches his gaze, his own blue eyes bright with some kind of emotion Dean can't put a name to. "Answer me." 

"Cas, I—I can't just…" Dean trails off, grimacing and looking away. "I wanna give you what you want, but not—not that. Anything else but that." 

_"Why?"_ Castiel blurts, sounding baffled. 

"I don't know." Dean closes his eyes, chest crumbling in on itself. "I don't fucking _know,_ Cas. You—you already know the answer, I know you do." 

Castiel sighs. "I don't. That is precisely the problem." 

"This gonna be another thing you hate me for?" Dean rasps, tears pricking at the back of his eyes. Fuck, why can't he just _say_ it? 

"The opposite," Castiel says gently, and Dean's eyes fly open. Castiel smiles slightly, the expression drawn and sad. "As I said before, I do not hate you. An answer is not dependent upon...hashing things out, as you suggested. You asked what I wanted, and I spoke freely. You are not to blame if you can't provide it." 

"So...what next?" Dean bites his bottom lip, stomach clenching when Castiel's eyes zero in on the movement. "For us, I mean." 

"Perhaps we can continue to talk," Castiel suggests calmly, swinging their hands pointedly. "For now, this is enough." 

"For now," Dean repeats warily. 

Castiel nods. "With Chuck's interference, I imagine life will become...strained very soon. There's a point that I simply wish to appreciate what I'm allowed for however long it may last." 

"So, just like that?" Dean squeezes Castiel's hand, blinking rapidly against the relief that washes through him like a crashing tide. "We're okay?" 

"We're...getting there," Castiel says carefully, tilting his head. "I believe the term is taking it one step at a time, right?" 

Dean releases a delirious, little huff of laughter and bobs his head. "Yeah, Cas, that's the term," he says softly, sweeping his free hand out towards the path in front of them. "So...let's keep on stepping." 

Castiel smiles and joins Dean in walking along the trail, their voices soft as they talk, words far more gentle than they've been in quite some time. 

Dean doesn't let go of Castiel's hand, and Castiel doesn't try to pull away. 

* * *

Despite Castiel's openness to them working things out, Dean can't help but feel as if there's still some invisible divide between them. 

It's strange, almost, how different things are now. For all the things they've been through, they've never acted this way towards each other. Their feelings have always been held up by pillars of intensity, no matter what they're facing, but things feel muted somehow. It's not gone, exactly, but it's...hidden. 

Castiel has always been awkward; that's just a part of who he is. Dean's always been fond of it, even when he's exasperated by it. But this is… It's like Castiel suddenly thinks of Dean as a stranger. He's okay when they're talking, but physical contact has gone up in smoke like it never existed in the first place. Castiel acts like he doesn't know what to do with his body when Dean's in the same room as him. As soon as they stopped holding hands on the trail, Castiel hasn't touched him since. 

They don't even argue anymore, but Dean's just as much at fault for that as he is. It's like they're walking around on eggshells, too afraid to misstep and send everything back into turmoil. It borders on teeth-grinding politeness that makes Dean want to punch something. 

Castiel doesn't avoid him or ignore him, but his presence feels forced. It's as if he's trying to melt in the background, hoping Dean won't notice him, as if that's possible. But Dean rarely bothers him because that leads into stilted conversation that just feels _weird_ in the worst way. 

They coexist, but that's all. 

They've never done that before, just...coexisted. It's excruciating. Dean's unable to stop conjuring scenarios where they break the spell by touching _a lot_ and frequently. Of the naked variety. Sexually. His mind provides explicit solutions to _all_ their problems, but he has to beat his thoughts in submission—it hadn't worked the last time, and even if it felt _very_ fucking good, it won't work on the second try. 

When Sam and Eileen _finally_ fucking return, Dean wants to cry in relief. 

"Seems like you two worked things out," Sam says with an easy smile. He wrinkles his nose as he gestures to Dean's neck. 

_Fucking fuck._ The goddamn hickeys! Dean had forgotten all about them, and Castiel sure hasn't brought them up. 

Dean cringes. "Ah, well...not—not exactly. I mean, we're working on it, I...think?" 

Sam's eyebrows rise. "You...think?" 

"Yeah, that's kinda the thing. We had a long talk. Actually, we talked _a lot,_ and we both kinda agreed to just handle things as they come. Except now I'm not sure if we fixed anything or not. The dude barely touches me, and things are just...weird." 

"Well, sex does complicate things, Dean." 

"That's not the part that's fucked up." Dean rolls his eyes and rubs at one of the faintly sore marks that's fading on his throat. "Actually, the sex was great. Cas really let off some steam. It's what came _after_ that's the problem. Fuck, what if we're, like, sexually compatible but not...ya know."

"Romantically compatible?" Sam suggests, looking like he's holding back laughter. "Dude, you two would be better than me and Eileen." 

Dean frowns. "I fucked it up again, I think." 

Sam claps him on the shoulder and offers him a gentle smile. "Then you fix it. Again." 

Dean groans. 

Sam has a point, much as he hates to admit it, even to himself. Fortunately, he doesn't have to spend every waking moment worrying about that. He throws himself into research with Castiel, Eileen, and Sam. He splits his attention between figuring out any way to defeat Chuck and looking into what could be going wrong with Castiel's grace. It takes up a good amount of his day, and that helps him avoid whatever the fuck is happening between him and Castiel. 

A day goes by, two, then three. By two in the morning of the third night, Dean kind of wants to curl in a ball and die. His eyes are in a permanent state of bleariness, he's nearly chronically horny, and Castiel _still_ won't hold his gaze for longer than five seconds—and he's been keeping count. He's also no closer than finding out what the fuck to do about either situation he's been researching.

It's Eileen who invokes a night off. Sam is on board with that pretty much immediately, which means they're going to sneak off to their room and have a grand time while Dean's forced to sit in awkward silence with Castiel, who's turned staring at walls into an art form. 

Dean busies himself by clearing off the table and thinking of _something_ to talk about. He keeps the pages bookmarked and stacks the books at the end of the table in four separate piles—one for each person who'd been using them. Once he's done, he glances down at the table in satisfaction, pleased with the neatness, only to freeze when his gaze lands on France. 

"Are you alright?" Castiel asks carefully, finally looking away from that goddamn wall. 

"Do you want to...hang out, maybe?" Dean says slowly, eyes locked onto France, his dick twitching in his pants. Traitor. 

Castiel pauses. "What would you like to do?" 

_Go to fucking Paris again,_ Dean thinks crudely. 

"We could watch a movie in my room," he says. 

Castiel is silent again, like he's searching for some reason he could say no. Apparently he fails to come up with something because he mumbles, "Okay." 

They do not end up watching a movie. 

To be completely fair, Dean has all intentions of doing that. He even drags out the old DVD player he's carted around since he and Sam were kids—their only source of entertainment at times in shitty motels. He lets Castiel pick out a movie from the variety of westerns he has, and when Castiel picks out _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,_ Dean feels his knees go weak like one of those old English girls from those cheesy romance novels. 

"That's one of my favorites," Dean whispers. 

"I know," Castiel replies. 

It should be noted that Dean does his _damndest_ to fight the rising yearning that takes hold of him. However, completely off the record, he gives in almost pathetically quick. 

Castiel is sitting on the edge of Dean's bed, legs stretched out before him, ankles crossed. And Dean just—well, he drops the wires to the DVD player, not giving two shits about how hard they smack against the dresser, and he snatches the movie from Castiel's hands, tossing it away without looking to see where it lands. Castiel looks all of confused for three seconds, then he seems to understand what's happening when Dean puts one knee on the bed beside his hip, tosses his other leg over his lap, then settles down like he's found the best seat in the bunker. Before Castiel can form a protest, Dean shoves his hands into his annoyingly neat hair, messing it up, and leans forward to kiss him. 

Whatever protest he might've come up with seems to become moot, because Castiel grips Dean's hips and kisses him back like his fucking life depends on it. 

This is the farthest thing from weird that Dean's felt associated with Castiel in _days._ It feels so right that he sinks into it with a small moan of relief. Castiel's hair is silky smooth between his fingers, and his lips are warm and puffy beneath his own, and Dean's so fucking _gone_ on him that it's kinda sad. 

Castiel makes a small sound in the back of his throat when Dean licks at the seam of his lips, squeezing his thighs around Castiel's sides, nails scratching lightly over his scalp. Dean swallows the small grunts of approval he makes, dragging his hands down to push Castiel's trenchcoat off his shoulders, never breaking the kiss as he works to tug it off. He instantly moves to the suit jacket, yanking that off next, and Castiel keeps his arms spread so Dean can shove the garments away as rough as he likes. 

And fuck, Dean _really_ likes. 

Castiel reaches up to tug at his own tie while Dean starts sneakily unbuttoning his pristine white shirt, revealing skin one sliver at a time. He can't focus between the kissing and the warmth of skin beneath his fingers, so he breaks away to pant and snatch at Castiel's clothes with embarrassing eagerness. Castiel's pupils are blown, his lips slick and swollen, hands working the tie off with ease. 

"Fuck," Dean groans, chest heaving as he gets to the buttons above Castiel's stomach. 

Dean has to yank the shirt from Castiel's pants to push it all the way off, which displaces them for a brief moment. They adjust easily, wordlessly, riding the curtails of sexual tension that's dragging them along mindlessly. Biting his lower lip and holding back a groan, Dean pushes the shirt free from Castiel's shoulders and immediately forgets it when he tosses it over the side of the bed. His hands instantly drag back over Castiel's arms, over his neck, down his chest, and holy hell, Castiel is so fucking gorgeous that he deserves to be in a renaissance painting or some shit. 

"Your turn," Castiel orders roughly, his voice deep and crackling with desire. _"Now."_

Dean scrambles to snatch off his flannels and the holey t-shirt beneath it, swallowing around a dry throat as Castiel watches with an intense spark in his gaze, like he'd chew Dean up and spit him out in the best way given the chance. 

Castiel leans forward to get his lips on Dean's skin, just below his collarbone, close to his anti-possession tattoo, and Dean chokes out, "Christ, you really like marking me up, huh?" 

In response, Castiel sucks harder. 

Dean fumbles with Castiel's belt, trying his hardest to get it off from this position but it's not quite working out, and maybe Castiel's senses this because he pulls away from Dean and stands them both up. Dean's trying to get Castiel's pants off while Castiel tries to remove Dean's, and it's only in the daze of their arousal that it would take them this long to realize it could be done much quicker if they'd just do it themselves. Luckily, Castiel is smart enough to figure this out, so he smacks Dean's hands away and gets naked while Dean copies him. 

Dean's dick is an angry red, precum pearled at the tip, standing at attention and begging to be noticed, but he can't be fucked to care about that right now. He moves over to his nightstand to locate his lube because there's no fucking way they're doing this angel-style again, not with Castiel's waning grace, and Castiel follows behind him, his hands on Dean's hips and his lips biting at the juncture between Dean's shoulder and neck. 

Shuddering, Dean forgets what he's doing for a moment, standing there with lube, his head falling back on Castiel's shoulder. 

Castiel plucks the lube from his hand abruptly and growls out, "Lay down, Dean." 

They're supposed to be taking this one step at a time, watching a movie, or literally anything but jumping right back into sex like it's going to fix them somehow. However, Dean's not the best at doing what he's _supposed_ to do. And thankfully, he's more inclined to do what Castiel tells him to. 

He lays down. 

Castiel reaches out to arrange him how he wants, and Dean blinks rapidly at how his body automatically follows what Castiel's hands tell it to do. Before long, he's sat up against his pillows, slightly inclined back, hands resting limply beside him despite wanting nothing more than to touch. He didn't get to last time, and his palms itch with the desire to memorize every bump and divot that Castiel's body has to offer. 

Then, suddenly, Castiel is kneeling on the bed beside Dean, reaching behind himself to push a lubed up finger in his own ass, and that would be hot usually, except Castiel's face twists into a grimace. 

"Hey, no, wait." Dean jolts up, reaching out in blatant alarm. "You're goin' too fast, sweetheart." 

Castiel scowls at him. "I'm an _angel,_ Dean, I think I can handle it." 

Dean nods. "Yeah, but...but lemme do it. Can I?" 

Castiel pauses, then murmurs, "Of course, Dean." 

Relaxing slightly, Dean grabs the lube and waves Castiel forward. It takes them a moment to situate themselves with Dean sitting up beside Castiel, reaching around to replace his finger with his own. He has a healthier amount of lube than Castiel had started with, which definitely helps matters, but he also goes slower. He's careful, gentle almost, and Castiel's grimace melts into pleasure fairly easily. 

It's slow-going, but so worth it when Castiel hisses low between his teeth and reaches out to grasp Dean's free hand, his head dropping. A moan slips free after that, and Dean grins. 

"Yeah, that's it, there we go," Dean breathes out, in awe of how Castiel tenses with pleasure and rocks back on his finger. 

Adding a second is an experience because Castiel's nails dig into his arm hard while his whole body trembles, a groan trapped behind his teeth. Dean's about to tell him to make noise, to let go, but Castiel suddenly starts fucking himself on Dean's fingers with wanton abandon, and that's…well, Dean's not stupid enough to interrupt that. 

Castiel must really be into it because he does it for so long that Dean's hand aches—not that he's complaining by any means—and he doesn't stop even when he's as prepared as he's going to get. It's not until Dean's fingers are gliding in and out with no resistance that Castiel stops, gritting his teeth and knocking Dean's hand away, black nearly overtaking the ring of blue in his eyes as he slams Dean back to the bed and straddles him. 

"Scoot up," Castiel says. 

Dean does instantly, which turns out to be a good thing because Castiel reaches behind himself to wrap a lubed hand around Dean's dick and guide it into his own body. As Castiel sinks down slowly, his hands landing on Dean's chest, nails digging in just slightly, Dean curses sharply and closes his eyes. 

"Fuck!" Dean yelps once Castiel's fully seated. 

Castiel grabs Dean's hands and threads their fingers together, leaning forward to press them back into the pillows and start rocking his hips in short increments, barely moving up before sinking back down fully. Dean can't dream of lifting his hands if he even wanted to, but he finds that he likes being held down to the bed with their fingers interlocked. There's an intimacy to it that makes Dean drift along his pleasure helplessly. 

Castiel sets a pace and Dean's just along for the ride, releasing curses and whining when Castiel randomly does circle-eights with his hips. It's a slow, torturous drag up before a quick, harsh slam down that makes Dean's toes curl and Castiel let out a soft moan that's barely heard over the sound of their skin pressing together and slipping apart. Over and over, Castiel works up and down, pushing them closer and closer to the edge, and Dean's so far into his own bliss that he doesn't realize that Castiel is letting his hands go until a few beats after it's done. 

"Touch me," Castiel rumbles, bracing his hands on Dean's chest to pick his hips up faster. 

Eyes fluttering, overcome with pleasure, Dean fumbles to do as Castiel asks. He uses one hand to reach out and grasp Castiel's hip, feeling the motion of it beneath his fingers. His other hand goes to Castiel's dick, wrapping around and going with the speed that Castiel's moving. 

"Shit, Cas, you're so—you're fucking _amazing,"_ Dean chokes out, staring up at him in awe. 

Castiel grunts, his eyebrows crumbling together in frustration. "I want—I need—" 

"Tell me what you want, Cas." Dean works over Castiel's length, watching him shudder and listening to him whine. "What do you want?" 

"I want you to—to—" Castiel's lips part and he fucks down on Dean hard, grinding his hips and looking even _more_ frustrated. "Please, I need—" 

"Okay, Cas, I got you, sweetheart," Dean moans, dropping Castiel's dick and wrapping both arms around him, pulling him close and leveraging them both up and over. 

Castiel lets out a quiet _oomph_ when his back hits the pillows and Dean hovers above him. "Dean, what—" 

"S'okay," Dean promises, leaning back to grab one of Castiel's knees, pushing it open wide. "Tell me how you want it. I'll go as fast or slow as you want." 

Dean can't tell him that he loves him, but he can fucking _show_ him. 

"Fast, hard," Castiel orders, spreading his legs and fisting his own dick as he waits. 

As Castiel requested, Dean fucks into him hard and fast, going in deep and yanking out quick. That seems to do the trick. It's apparently what Castiel's been looking for because his eyes fall shut, his mouth falls open, and he falls apart. 

The sight of it is gorgeous. Castiel is more vocal like this, gasping and calling out Dean's name, fucking his own fist desperately. Dean refuses to tear his eyes away, sweating and groaning and grunting as he tries to pour as much ecstasy between them as he can. Castiel's back arches and he clenches around Dean's dick, and Dean nearly fucking falters at how utterly amazing that feels.

When Castiel comes, a mere few thrusts later, his head tosses to the side and he shouts Dean's name as his release dribbles over his hand and on his chest. It's such a fucking pretty picture that Dean follows after one more thrust, pulling out and coming on the bedsheets like a fucking gentleman. 

And that's about all the energy Dean has. He's getting _old._ Tumbling to the side and nearly off the bed, he manages to land half on top of Castiel and half curled up against his side. He can feel Castiel's chest rising and falling; up, up, up and down. 

Dean presses his forehead to Castiel's throat, breathing hard. Softly, he rasps, "Please don't leave again." 

"I—I should probably…" Castiel trails off when Dean lifts his head and stares at him. 

"Cas, I don't—I try not to ask for a whole lot in my life 'cause I rarely get the things I want," Dean admits in a croak. "I'm askin' you now, okay? I'm askin' you to stay. I _want_ you to stay. So just—just please stay." 

Castiel meets his gaze, his eyes incredibly gentle with emotion. "Of course, Dean," he whispers, his own voice a gravelly mess of shredded vocal cords. 

They're a wreck, and they're no better than they were previously, and they're gonna have to talk about all of this eventually. But, for now, this is enough for Dean. He presses his face back into Castiel's throat, using his shoulder as a pillow, and he allows himself to enjoy this one moment of pure contentment. 

There, in Castiel's arms, he drifts off. 

* * *

When Dean wakes up, Castiel is gone. 

Dean doesn't even pick his head up from the pillows. He just groans and slaps his hands over his face, feeling like shit. Once again, Castiel just _leaves._ Dean can't even fault him for it, not entirely sure he'd stick around if roles were reversed. Still, it hurts more than he's willing to acknowledge, and he hates the war going on his chest right now. 

"Dean?" 

Oh. 

Jerking up, Dean blinks around the room to see Castiel pulling his pants on. He's watching Dean curiously, head tilted to the side, blue eyes flicking over Dean's naked form like he can't help it. 

"You stayed." 

Castiel nods warily. "You asked me to." 

"Thanks," Dean mumbles, fighting the blush rising to his cheeks and losing. "Uh, where are you off to now?" 

"Sam stopped by," Castiel informs him, dipping down to scoop up Dean's jeans and toss them at him, hitting him in the face. "There's a case that Jody called about, that she needs handled ASAP. A pack of werewolves terrorizing in North Dakota. She said she'd take care of it, but her and Claire are in Ohio dealing with a Wendigo." 

Dean moves the jeans off his face and gives a weak smile. "Well, time to go back to work, I guess. Sam and Eileen ready?" 

"Actually," Castiel says calmly, "it's just us." 

"Just...us," Dean repeats cautiously. 

"Yes. Research still needs to be continued, and we could handle the case on our own. I offered for us to take it, and Sam agreed." Castiel arches an eyebrow, still shirtless, pants unbuttoned. "Is that a problem?" 

Dean swallows thickly. "Nope, no, that's—it's perfectly fine, Cas." 

Castiel nods and grabs his shirt, swinging it up on his shoulders, slowly buttoning it. "Good." 

"Great," Dean says weakly.

"Dean, you're not moving." 

"Right, right." 

* * *

Four days later finds Dean pacing the brightly lit hospital hallway, chest feeling too tight for all his organs, his breathing erratic and his thoughts even more of a mess. Back and forth, from one end to the other, Dean walks a circuit and presses his fist into his palm, then switches to the other hand. 

He feels like he's going to throw up. 

An hour and a half later, Sam and Eileen come barreling down the hallway. Dean's relieved to see them, he really is, but the sight of them approaching makes his breath get lodged in his chest. Terror spikes within him, making him reach out and clutch the wall, breathing deep and slow. 

"Dean, are you okay?" Sam asks, finally reaching him, his face a mask of concern. 

Dean takes in a shaky breath. "I—I don't—" 

No, Dean is _not_ okay. He hates hospitals; they remind him of his dad, of dying, and make him feel like he's trapped. It smells too clean, too sterile, the stench of it so strong he has permanent nausea. Doctors don't answer his fucking questions, and no one has time to care about the middle-aged man having a meltdown in the hallway. And Castiel is… He is…

"Why don't you sit down?" Eileen asks gently, ushering Sam out of the way and guiding Dean to a seat, kneeling in front of him. Her smile is sad. "Take a deep breath, then tell us what happened." 

"There was—the werewolves… There were—" Dean has to stop and take a deep breath, knees bouncing, hands clenched in his lap. Eileen rubs his arm encouragingly. "We—we scoped the place out, but I missed one. Fuck, Sammy, I _missed one."_

Sam sits down in the chair beside him, squeezing his shoulder. Dean lifts his hands and presses the ball of his palms into his eyes until he can see black spots in his vision, his legs jumping up and down, up and down, up and down. He can't breathe. 

"Dean, it's not your fault," Sam murmurs, his voice low and soothing. "Just tell us what happened." 

"He—he was attacked, and he didn't fucking heal," Dean says, lifting his head to stare between Sam and Eileen. "That fucker got him from behind, started stomping on his chest, and—and I killed her before it got worse. But by then...Cas was already bleeding. Just—just started spitting up blood, unresponsive, and he wouldn't _heal._ I didn't—I didn't know where else to bring him, what else to do." 

"You did the right thing, Dean, it's okay," Eileen says softly, taking one of his hands and holding it. 

Dean shakes his head, pressing his lips together to hold back a wounded noise. "No, no, it's not 'cause he shoulda been out by now. They—they won't tell me anything, and—and I think he's—" 

Sam stands up abruptly, face twisted in a firm scowl of fury. "Hold on, I'm going to find someone to tell us what the hell is—" 

"Excuse me," a doctor says as he approaches, making them all jump—save for Eileen, who reacts a moment later when the boys do—and whirl around. "Hi, yes, are you the gentleman who brought in Castiel?" 

Dean jerks up from his seat, heart racing wildly in his chest. "Yeah, that's—that's me." 

"And who are you in relation to the patient?" the doctor asks, fingering the stethoscope around his neck, gaze flickering between them all patiently. 

"Husband," Dean rattles off instantly, then motions to Sam and Eileen. "My brother and my sister-in-law. Is—is Cas okay?" 

The doctor's eyebrows furrow and he reaches up to scratch his head. "Well, that's just the thing. I'm sorry, sir, but—" 

"Oh god," Dean whispers, stepping back and colliding into Sam's chest. 

"No! No, sir, you misunderstand me," the doctor blurts out frantically. "Castiel is fine...we think. The darndest thing happened during the operation. He just...started healing? We're not quite sure what happened; I've been a doctor for twelve years, and I've _never_ seen skin knit back together like that." 

Relief hits Dean so hard he could cry. Instead, he busts out laughing. Shaky, uproarious laughter that rattles him to the core. He has to bend over and clutch his stomach, wheezing as chuckles erupt from him, just on the edge of hysteria. Sam grabs his arm, hissing his name urgently, but Dean can't stop fucking cackling like a mad man. 

"Dean?" 

"Sir! What did we—back in bed!" the doctor yelps hysterically. "Get back to your—" 

Dean's laughter dries up so fast that he's sure he hallucinated the whole thing. He straightens up, his breath punching out of him as he takes in Castiel walking up the hallway in nothing but a hospital gown. Now is an odd time to think about how the powder-blue robe brings out Castiel's eyes, but that's the first thought that crosses his mind. 

"I said I was _fine,"_ Castiel bites out, shaking off the fussing doctor. "I'm leaving. _Now._ Dean, let's—" 

Dean surges forward and grapples Castiel into a hug before he can even finish his sentence. It's quick, just a there-and-gone squeeze to make sure he's fine, then Dean shoves him away. He whirls around and stomps off, sucking in deep breaths and doing his best to put as much distance between himself and the emotion lingering in the hallway. He faintly hears Castiel call his name, vaguely registers Sam murmuring to him, distantly catches Eileen calling the doctor off, but it's like he's getting all that information through a tunnel. 

His ears are ringing. 

Dean doesn't feel better until he's out in the parking lot, ducking down beside Baby, pressing his face to her cold, chrome rims. He stares at his distorted reflection and breathes. 

Suddenly, all at once, he realizes why he can't tell Castiel that he's in love with him. 

It's because of shit like this. Because of his fucking life. He can't love, not without losing; that's not how Chuck's fucking plans work. Dean _dares_ to love someone besides Sam, as much as Sam, and he's forced to lose them. Castiel is no exception; in fact, he's half the fucking proof. Over and over, Dean's had to lose him in some way or another, like God is just having a fucking ball with the cosmic joke of watching Dean fall into the same trap all the time. 

Dean can't be in love with Castiel, not openly at least, because that pretty much guarantees that he'll be lost for good. This little brush with grief is just added proof to the pile of reasons that Dean's been unable to voice what he feels. 

He's so fucking _scared._

"Dean," Castiel calls out softly. 

He's coming around the car, and Dean's fucking _crying._ It's so humiliating to feel the tears burning paths down his cheeks, but he can't help it. There's just something tragically devastating about realizing that he'll never be able to give Castiel what he wants, what he deserves, what they both need. 

"Are you—oh." Castiel comes to a halt when he sees Dean settled on his ass by Baby. "You're...upset." 

"What gave me away?" Dean croaks. 

Castiel sighs and shifts his trenchcoat—now that he's back in his clothes—and kneels down beside Dean, perched on the balls of his feet. "Well, the tears were a good indicator. Sam and Eileen are inside, doing their best to handle very confused medical professionals. They could be awhile." 

"We should get the hell outta dodge," Dean mumbles, sniffling and swiping at his face. 

"Yes," Castiel agrees, eyeing Dean carefully. "I notice that you are...still upset. I apologize if I frightened you in any way. I was unconscious and unable to heal myself. When I came to, I managed just fine."

"Thought you were dying," Dean admits. "Or dead." 

"And that...hurt you greatly," Castiel notes slowly, eyes flicking over Dean in a curious manner. 

Dean snorts derisively. "Cas, buddy, a lot of shit you do hurts me greatly." 

Castiel looks away, his lips tightening in open hurt. Dean feels guilty for his wording, but it's far too late to take it back now. Even if it's not a lie, they had moved past this part—except Dean's in the wrong state of mind to care about that. He wants to apologize, wants to take it back, but he doesn't. 

"I think…" Castiel trails off, eyes cutting back over to examine Dean. "I think I prefer ‘sweetheart’." 

"You—you…" Dean's heart clenches in his chest, Castiel's gaze heavy on him. He realizes belatedly that maybe calling Castiel _buddy_ after some of the things they've done isn't the best idea. "Cas, I'm—I didn't mean it like...like _that._ We're still—well, I still want to...ya know." 

Castiel arches an eyebrow. "Engage in sexual intimacy without talking about it?" 

"Well...yeah," Dean admits awkwardly. 

"Oh, Dean." Castiel rolls his eyes and stands to his feet, offering his hand out to Dean, hauling him up with an easy tug. "There are many things I don't understand about humanity, but you are, by far, the most confusing part." 

Dean grunts and drops Castiel's hand, averting his eyes and swiping at his cheeks again. "Yeah, well, you're no walk in the park either. And if you _ever_ pull some shit like this again, I'm gonna kick your ass." 

"Yes, because I'm in complete control of everything that happens to me," Castiel says dryly. 

"I was…" Dean swallows thickly and takes a step towards Castiel, hovering close in his space, staring at him with a helpless kind of desperation bred only from deep emotion. "Cas, I was _scared._ You fucking scared me, man. I—I can't deal with any more loss, not after everything. 'Specially not you." 

Castiel's face softens. "Dean, there's no way of knowing what may come. But I can promise you that I have no intentions of leaving you so soon." 

"I'm glad that's changed," Dean admits softly, swaying forward without much thought, drawn into Castiel's orbit. "You wanted to leave before." 

"I—well, no, not exactly." Castiel looks at him, lips parting, blinking slowly. It's like watching art in slow-motion. "I left because I felt that I deserved better than what I had to deal with. I didn't _want_ to at all, but it seemed necessary. And I was right. However, things have changed, and I can't pinpoint why or when, but I'm very happy to stay now." 

Dean braces his hand on the side of Baby, sucking in a sharp breath. In that moment, it's damn near impossible to hold back the words, to stop himself from spilling his feelings out, to keep from giving Castiel exactly what he wants. Just hearing that Castiel wants to stay, that things are changing between them...it's enough to send emotions soaring through Dean, making him feel like he's floating untethered from the ground, unafraid to fall. 

He can't just ignore that, can't brush it off and move on. He's in _so_ deep, far deeper than he's ever allowed himself to go before. It hurts more than he cares to admit that he can't keep going, that he can't take what they have and run with it, that he has to keep this horrible barrier between them. He can't have Castiel like this, not fully, not with everything out in the open; he'll lose his fucking mind if he gets that and then has to live without it. 

But...a kiss, he can do. Wants to do, in fact. _Desperately._ Everything within him craves it, yearns for the simplicity in pressing his lips to Castiel's and knowing it's allowed. And he can have that, can have just this, and there's no risk—it's just enough. 

For now. 

Dean stumbles forward and curls his free hand around the back of Castiel's neck, tugging him in to meet the kiss halfway. The moment their lips touch, all of Dean's tension leaves his body, and he sags into it with a little grunt of approval. 

Castiel kisses him gently at first, intimate and soft, reaching up to cradle Dean's cheeks in his palms. It's so, _so_ nice. It reminds Dean of warmth, of long rides, of every wholesome moment in every chick flick he's claimed to never have watched. He wants to wrap up in this moment, capture it and revisit it any time he's feeling like shit, hold it close and never let go. 

Dean strokes the light stubble on Castiel's cheek and holds onto Baby with all his might, a small sound escaping the back of his throat when Castiel draws him in closer, pulling them into an embrace. The kissing stops all at once, leaving them to press their foreheads together, breathing the same air and leaning into each other. Dean's suddenly terrified of letting Castiel go, struck with such fear that when he does, Castiel won't return to his arms so easily. 

They don't do this, or they _haven't_ until now. Kissing without sex, holding onto each other like they can't bare to let go, a simplicity in how much they need each other; none of it has happened yet, and this feels too intense, like maybe they can't go back to what they had before. But Dean knows they can't go forward either. Being stuck in this in-between state of loving each other so severely but refusing to let it bloom properly is going to send them right back to the path of ruin. 

"Dean, what are we _doing?"_ Castiel breathes, sounding so heartbreakingly lost and full of hope, the words trembling with implications between them. 

Dean keeps his eyes closed and pulls back minutely to tap his forehead to Castiel's. "I almost lost you today, Cas. Just—just let me have this. Please." 

"You can have everything. I'd give it to you without hesitation. But you won't give it in return." Castiel's throat clicks in the silence. "There was a time I wouldn't have required anything from you, but that was before I learned what having it felt like. I want it, Dean. Selfishly, I want it all." 

"I can't, Cas." Dean takes in a deep, shuddering breath, that stupid tear leaking down his cheek like his own personal kryptonite. His voice breaks when he says, "I'm so fucking sorry, but I _can't."_

Castiel sighs softly and holds onto Dean tighter for one brief moment, brushing his lips against Dean's, and then he pulls away. Dean's eyes flutter open to see tears shining in Castiel's, a sheen forming over the bright blue, his lips quivering. He swallows once, twice, a horribly dry third time, then nods. 

"I understand," Castiel whispers, his voice so soft, and Dean thinks he doesn't understand at all. "If you can't, then I do not blame you. But you have to understand that I can't exist like this, in halfways and almosts. For me, it is all or nothing, and perhaps it has always been this way—I've always just been all, rather than nothing. But just like you, I can't do that anymore, and as you are, I'm very sorry." 

"Fuck," Dean chokes out, his heart squeezing violently in his chest, "you're breaking up with me. _Again."_

Castiel watches him sadly. "For us to break up, there would have to be a relationship to begin with. As we just established, you can't give me that. So, no, I'm not breaking up with you. I'm just...protecting myself from something that will only cause more strain in the future. It's okay, Dean, _we_ are okay. Perhaps this is best; we can try to be better friends than we've previously been, and that...that is enough." 

"Is it?" Dean rasps, blinking rapidly against his itchy eyes, his chest feeling like it's crumbling. 

"It has to be," Castiel replies, trying for a small smile and failing. 

Dean opens his mouth to say something, to argue, to fight, but he just...doesn't. Slowly, he closes his mouth and stares at Castiel, feeling lost and unsure about everything. Somehow, by ensuring that he won't have to feel the sting of losing Castiel if they were to be freely in love, he's managed to guarantee that he'll lose Castiel and what they have now anyway. He doesn't know if he can go back to being _just friends._ How do you un-love someone? If it's possible, Dean hasn't learned how yet. 

Castiel gives a small nod, a heart-wrenching dejection written all over him as he turns around and walks away. And suddenly, Dean's untethered feeling goes away as he comes crashing to the ground. 

To love and to lose is quite possibly the worst thing he can imagine, but this is a very close second.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes all you have to do is ask for what you want, and you can get it." Castiel pauses and his lips twist bitterly. "And sometimes, you can ask and you won't get anything at all." 

Dean can't do this. 

He thought he could, but he can't. This just isn't something he can pull off, no matter how much he tries. He's skilled in a lot of things, but withholding love is not one of his strong suits. 

Being Castiel's friend and nothing more is utterly excruciating. For one, Dean's not at all impervious to his charms—he's still funny, still adorable, still fierce, still hot as hell. None of that is going away. 

Castiel spends a lot of time carrying on full conversations with Eileen, never uttering a word. Often times, whatever he's signing to her makes her crack up and laugh uproariously, which is an endearing sight in and of itself. Her chuckles always makes Castiel smile, wide and gummy, nose wrinkling, and Dean nearly has a goddamn heart attack every time he catches it. 

When he's not researching or spending time with Eileen, Castiel makes it a point to give his full attention to Dean. It's not at all awkward, though Dean almost misses when things were. Instead, there's an undercurrent of want that Castiel refuses to acknowledge but _never_ hides. His touches will linger, his smiles are warm with fondness, and sometimes there's a spark of heat between them that Dean internally _begs_ Castiel to act on—he never does. 

And Dean tries, he really fucking does, but it takes him all of four days of restless research and a tragic longing for him to realize that maybe, _just maybe,_ he's made a really big mistake. 

Sam certainly doesn't help matters. He keeps sending Dean disappointed looks, has been ever since he learned that nothing came of anything. Dean doesn't enjoy disappointing Sam, and he sure as hell doesn't like letting himself down, but it's not like all of this has been his plan. When Sam catches him looking at Castiel with what must be a helplessly pining look, he sends Dean a scolding expression that basically screams “ _Fix it!”_

Eileen simply pats his cheek when she finds out and says, "You're an idiot, but I still like you, so there's that at least," and shakes her head as she walks away. 

By day five, Dean has started to rethink everything that's been holding him back at this point. He doesn't think he was wrong, exactly, but he's pretty sure that he wasn't right. Being scared to love someone when all you do is lose people feels like a normal reaction, but Dean's already tired of it. 

There has to be a loophole. There's _always_ a loophole. 

Dean approaches the problem the same way he does a case, looking for a solution from every angle, trying to find a way to defy all the odds stacked against him. He can't give Castiel what he wants, not without invoking the paranoia that he'll be damned for it. Dean can't stop loving with his full being, and he can't stop believing his life is full of such destruction that Castiel will just be swept up in it. _Again._

He can't tell Castiel, that would just—

Wait. 

No, see, this idea is about as dumb as they get. But maybe it's so dumb that it's smart. It's a loophole of sorts, and Dean's reached the point that he'll take what he can get and let the cards fall where they may. Castiel's right; they have no idea what's going to happen with Chuck in the works, so they have no idea how much time they've got to enjoy what they can. He might as well take the leap, even just to feel the fall, even if he isn't caught before he lands. 

Jolting up in his seat, Dean whirls around to meet Sam's eyes. "I need a favor." 

Sam perks up. "Do you, now? And what do I get for this favor?" 

"Whatever you want," Dean says. "This is important. It's about Cas." 

"Oh," Sam chirps, lips twitching. "In that case, I'll let this slide. What do you need?" 

Dean takes a deep breath and smiles. 

* * *

When Dean steps into the bar, his eyebrows fly up in surprise. He can't fathom why Sam picked _this_ place out of everywhere else in the state, but he's not mad at it. The atmosphere helps him relax, anyway. 

That's…probably why Sam picked it, now that Dean thinks about it. Sometimes he's such a good brother that Dean wants to punch him. Maybe he'll take Eileen to go pick out a ring instead. 

The bar isn't too full of people, but there's a number of bodies moving around the room. Waitresses walking around with scratched-up brown trays perched on their shoulders, white shirts and very short shorts. A burly man behind the bar with a kind smile and lots of tattoos, pouring drinks as his laughter booms loudly through the place. An old jukebox in the corner playing _Hungry Like The Wolf_ by Duran Duran, dusty and brightly lit in the dim room. The volume in the place is rowdy, but not overbearing, and Dean settles as soon as he steps through the front door. 

Castiel looks slightly out of place at the bar, fingers wrapped around the glass in front of him. Dean hopes he hasn't been waiting too long; he can imagine how confused the poor guy is. 

Once again, Dean questions whether this is actually a good idea or not. But he's here now, and he can't just back out. It's happening, despite how oddly nervous he is, and that's _that._

Taking a deep breath, Dean slaps on a charming smile and casually strolls to the bar, sliding into the open seat next to Castiel without looking at him. He can feel the weight of blue eyes boring into the side of his face, but he does his best to ignore it as the bartender approaches him. 

"Can I help ya?" the bartender asks. 

Dean reaches in his back pocket, lifting up off the stool to pull out some money. "Just a beer for now, thanks. Keep the change." 

The bartender grabs the money and taps the counter, bobbing his head. "You got it." 

_Come On Eileen_ by Dexys Midnight Runners starts playing next, and Dean tips his head along to the beat, quietly singing the words under his breath. The bartender slides him his beer from down the bar, turning to the next customer after Dean throws up his fingers in thanks. Next to him, Castiel clears his throat loudly. 

Dean turns to face him, then cocks his head, smiling wide. "Well, hello there," he says playfully, grabbing his beer and twisting in his seat to fully face Castiel. 

"Hi," Castiel says flatly. "D—" 

"The name's Dean," Dean interrupts quickly, holding his hand out. He winks. "And yours?" 

Castiel's eyebrows furrow. "Dean, what are you—" 

"You're supposed to shake it and introduce yourself, by the way," Dean cuts him off, waggling his fingers at Castiel pointedly. 

"I—yes, Dean, I know that." Castiel rolls his eyes and reaches out to grasp Dean's hand, pumping once before dropping it. "I'm Cas. Now, what—" 

"You come here often?" Dean asks, leaning over on his elbow, watching Castiel patiently. 

Castiel blinks at him, head tilting slightly. That adorable wrinkle between his eyebrows makes an appearance, and Dean knows how confused he is right now. It shouldn't be so _cute,_ but Dean's working real hard not to melt into a pile of goo regardless. Then Castiel sighs and shakes his head, lips curling up in a small, amused smile. 

"No, actually, I don't." Castiel waves a hand at the room, never looking away from Dean. "My friend brought me here and dropped me off without telling me _why._ So I'm stuck here, for now." 

Dean bites back a grin. "Sounds like a shitty friend."

"You're mistaken," Castiel tells him, a fondness crossing his face briefly. "Sam is the exact opposite of shitty. He's wonderful." 

"Just a friend?" Dean asks innocently, blinking slowly, watching Castiel roll his eyes again. 

"More than, actually," Castiel says. "He's like a brother. But if you're referencing romance, then just a friend is correct. My preference in that department lies somewhere else." 

Dean's stomach squirms in a strange tangle of nerves and excitement. "Do they?" he croaks. "Tell me about that. I ain't got anywhere else to be." 

_Back In Black_ by AC/DC kicks off with its first strong note, and Dean taps the bar along to the beat, staring at Castiel curiously. He's surprised that Castiel is playing along, but now that he is, Dean finds that this is actually kind of...fun? 

"Well, Dean, I must admit...I don't feel comfortable telling my business to strangers," Castiel quips, one eyebrow arching up in challenge. 

Dean purses his lips. "That's fair. How about this? I tell you about my woes in the romance department, and then we won't be strangers anymore. How does that sound? Work for you?" 

"I suppose that's only fair," Castiel mutters, his eyes going a little wide, that telltale swallow that he gives when he's nervous bobbing his throat. 

"So, there's this guy." Dean cuts Castiel an amused look. "I know what you're thinking. A guy? _Me?_ But, to be fair, he's really hot. _And_ technically he's not a guy; he's an angel, you see. But that's besides the point. I like dudes and dude-shaped people, whatever. My point is, there's this guy, right?" 

Castiel lifts a hand to cover his mouth, the skin by his eyes wrinkling as he chuckles. "I would like to point out that I never cared about the gender that you find yourself attracted to," he tells him once he's gotten his laughter under control. 

"Yeah, well, just setting the record straight. Or not straight, I guess. You know what I mean." 

"Yes, Dean, I do. Continue." 

"So, this guy, he's basically my best friend," Dean explains, swiping a hand through the air, leaning forward like he's telling a secret. "Known the crazy bastard for over ten years, and he's pretty much one of the most important people in my life. We've been through a lot, like a _shitload,_ and we'd be here all night if I had to tell it all." 

Castiel hums. "I'll allow my imagination to fill in the blanks, then." 

"Anyway, so we've always had this...connection, I guess. He once called it a ‘profound bond’, and that doesn't really cover it, but it's a start. Put it this way, we spend almost as much time just _gazing_ at each other as we do talking. Which, ya know, I'm not usually the type to just go looking deep into somebody's eyes, no matter how good they look, but there's just somethin' about him, ya know?" 

"If you say so, Dean." 

Snorting, Dean snaps his fingers and points at Castiel. "And that's another thing. The dude is _funny._ Not—not to most people, but to me, yeah. I just like him, I think, always have. You know what it's like to meet someone and just...click with 'em, Cas?" 

"Yes," Castiel says gently, his eyes soft with humor and fondness. "I know exactly what you're describing. The exact same thing, actually." 

"Right." Dean nods and smiles nervously, swallowing thickly as he ponders his next words. "The only problem is, with all that intensity me and him got, we found a lot of ways to hurt each other. Not on purpose, never that, but we always seemed to hit where it hurt. And we screwed up a lot, me especially. Since we can't do anything by halves, we get as angry at each other as we get all intense. Sometimes, we argued more than we didn't." 

Castiel ducks his head, lips tipping down as he stares at his lap. "I'm sure it was never as simple as just being angry at each other." 

"No, no, it wasn't. You're right about that." Dean huffs a laugh and takes a pull on his beer. "There were a lot of feelings involved, actually. But we always—no matter what—found a way to be okay in the end, even when it seemed impossible." 

"You must have cared for each other very much." Castiel looks up, lips curling up. "It sounds to me like you two fought very hard to stay on good terms." 

"Yeah, we did. Except, some shit went down and things were as bad as they'd ever been. We both lost someone, both lost the same people, and we kinda fell apart because of it." Dean swallows and looks at Castiel, leaning closer and lowering his voice. "But ya know what? It took him leaving me for me to face the fact that I always wanted him around. I was treating him like shit, and he had all rights to leave, and it's one of the things I'm most sorry for. That I pushed him to that point." 

"You must have felt...abandoned," Castiel murmurs, staring at Dean curiously, like he genuinely wants to know about that. 

Dean nods. "Yeah, I did. Which ain't fair, really. And since I'm shit with feelings, I just kept making it worse. But the strangest thing happened to us." 

"What happened?" Castiel asks. 

"We lost our memories. Didn't know hide nor hair about anyone in our lives, not each other, not ourselves. There was a witch, it was a whole thing." Dean flaps a hand and grins when Castiel's lips twitch at his aloof words. "Crazy part about all of it? We didn't know each other or ourselves, but we had these feelings like we meant something to each other, like we were meant to be together. Not gonna lie to you, I thought me and him were married or something. Didn't know myself, but I could feel this...this _pull_ to him. It felt like love." 

Castiel's breath hitches. "Did it?" 

"Yeah, Cas, it really did," Dean admits, biting his bottom lip and balling his fist on the counter to keep from reaching out. He takes another swig of beer, ignoring his jitters. "So much so that I just...assumed we were already in love. I figured there wasn't any harm in falling in love with him all over again, thought I'd wake up with memories one day and be glad that I got the chance. And so, I let it happen, fell for him as easy as anything." 

"You did?" Castiel breathes out, eyes wide, fingers clasped tightly together, his gaze never straying from Dean's face. He's enthralled with the story. 

Dean smiles softly. "Sure as shit did. And, to be fair, we tried to keep it pg-13 if you know what I mean, but it got to a point that we didn't know if we'd ever get our memories back, and I just—I wanted him _so bad._ Thankfully, he felt the same 'cause I got some mind-blowing sex out of it. I was totally sure that we'd had sex before because it felt so right." 

"It did, it _really_ did," Castiel agrees, slipping out of his role without even seeming to notice. 

"How would you know?" Dean teases, laughing when Castiel jolts like he's being smacked back into his body. "But yeah, it was good, really good. I wasn't even worried about getting my memories back because I was so sure we were happy and in love." 

Castiel clears his throat. "And were you?" 

Dean snorts. "Hell no. My life ain't as easy as that. When we got our memories back, we suddenly had to face the fact that we'd been fighting the whole time. We'd hurt each other real bad, you see, and adding a whole love affair to the mix was just...a lot. I didn't know how to deal with it at first, didn't know how to face the fact that I'd fallen in love with my best friend who couldn't even stand to be in the same room with me. Which was completely fair on his part." 

"That sounds...dreadful," Castiel comments, reaching over to fiddle with his glass. "I imagine that your best friend was equally anxious about what would come from an unintended tryst." 

"He didn't act like it." Dean leans back in his seat, raising his eyebrows. "He acted like it didn't matter, but the thing was...it mattered to me. _He_ mattered to me. I—I had to realize that those feelings I had while I didn't have memories weren't fabricated. Everything I felt was real, all of it. And it had to come from somewhere, ya know?" 

"Did you face them?" Castiel asks warily. 

Dean shrugs. "Didn't have a choice. Then my asshole of a best friend had to go and ask if I was in love with him, and I couldn't answer him. I mean, how could I? After everything, that was the last damn question I ever wanted to have to answer." 

"Perhaps he needed to know," Castiel says, his voice hardening, eyes narrowing. "Maybe it was important for him to hear that answer." 

"It wasn't the right time. We we're still fighting, and we had a long way to go before we could fix everything. I kept trying to, but he didn't seem to be on board with that, but I didn't want to lose him, ya know? I guess I was just scared." 

"We all feel fear, Dean. Even your best friend, I imagine. Perhaps even more than you do. As an angel, feelings must be harder for him to grasp and filter properly." 

"Yeah, I got that." Dean sighs and puts his hand on his own cheek, gazing at Castiel. "It was a real struggle, but we eventually got to a point where everything kinda...boiled over, so to speak. Even through all that anger and bitterness, none of the attraction went away. So we, uh, had sex again. It was as good as the first time, and he got to let off some steam in the process, but it made things...different, somehow. We weren't okay, exactly, but it seemed like we both realized that we needed to be." 

"He didn't...hurt you? During the sex, I mean?" Castiel asks cautiously, guilt twisting his face.

Dean chuckles. "Definitely not. I enjoyed it. I like to feel it the next day, if you catch my drift. He, uh, made sure I felt it for the next _few_ days, and I really liked that. If I had it my way, we'd do it again." 

Heat sparks in Castiel's eyes instantly, his blue eyes dragging down Dean's body and back up again. "I'm sure if he was honest with you, he'd tell you that he enjoys sex with you _very_ much." 

"I kinda figured that out on my own," Dean says with a broad grin. "After that, things got kinda awkward between us. We were tryin' to find even ground again, but it was really hard. And I was ready to pull my hair out 'cause it was so fucking _tedious._ I missed being his best friend, and I was kinda obsessed with getting him naked again, and I just… Well, I kind of jumped his bones as soon as I could. Probably a bad idea, seeing as we were still kinda off." 

"He let you, though," Castiel assures him, shaking his head in amusement. "He could have stopped you, but he didn't, possibly wanting it as much as you did. That has to count for something." 

"It did," Dean agrees. "What counted even more was that he stayed when I asked him to. He has a thing about leaving, ya see, and it drives me up the wall. It's the exact opposite of what I want him to do, but he just kept on doing it. And maybe that was my fault because I never asked him to stay. But when I did, he didn't leave, and that—that meant the world to me." 

"Sometimes all you have to do is ask for what you want, and you can get it." Castiel pauses and his lips twist bitterly. "And sometimes, you can ask and you won't get anything at all." 

Dean swallows, heart thumping unevenly in his chest, alarms blaring in his mind. This is his last chance to back out. He can call it quits right now and keep them from going any further. But nothing in him wants that; he wants to advance as far forward as he can get away with. 

"S'funny, my best friend asked me for something. A couple of times, actually." Dean takes a deep breath and stares into Castiel's eyes. "I couldn't give it to him, even though I _really_ wanted to. My life is kind of a shitshow, and I don't get to keep good things. I always end up losing people, and I'm kinda terrified that me giving him what he wants is basically the nail in his coffin. I—I don't want to tell him because things could be real good after I do, so good that it'll hurt that much more if—if I lose him. And he recently got hurt, which scared me shitless, and it felt like a reminder of _why_ I couldn't give him what he wants. It's—it's just not how my life works, Cas, and I hate that it ruins so many things for me." 

"Dean…" Castiel whispers, his eyes wide, his breathing slightly off-kilter. 

"But uh, I kinda hoped he knew anyway, ya know? That way I wouldn't have to say it and we could just keep on the way we had been." Dean averts his eyes, taking another deep gulp of beer. After, he sets his shoulders and leans forward until his face is just in front of Castiel's. "But that's bullshit, ain't it? Things could be _perfect_ if I just bucked up and said _fuck it_ to whatever force is out there that wants to ruin my life. And I thought, what if I didn't tell him? What if I could let him know without ever telling him?" 

Castiel says nothing, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes so wide and _so_ fucking blue. 

Dean swallows and looks down at Castiel's lips, longing filling him to the brim. He releases a shaky breath and lifts his gaze to Castiel's. "And that's why I'm here, talking to a stranger. Because I can't tell my best friend that I'm in love with him, that I've been in love with him for so long that I can't remember not feeling it. I'm here to tell someone else the answer to his question. To tell them yes."

Castiel is so still he looks made of stone, eyes wide and glittering with emotion. Dean holds his breath, waiting for something, anything. 

It doesn't take much longer. 

Castiel launches out of his seat so quickly, like a snake finally striking, and Dean only gets to suck in a sharp breath before Castiel's lips are mashed against his own. Dean fumbles against the bar, trying not to topple off his stool as Castiel tosses his arms around his neck and kisses him with some kind of passion that Dean's never felt before. Sliding his free arm around Castiel, he manages to steady them and stop splitting his attention between his balance and everything Castiel is currently pouring into this kiss. 

_Jesus Christ._

Dean makes a startled sound in the back of his throat as Castiel deepens the kiss with a smooth swipe of his tongue that he can't ignore. Castiel is abruptly kissing him _filthily,_ the people around them be damned, seemingly focused on the intensity of their contact and nothing else. Dean's thoughts are scrambled in two seconds flat, so all he can do is grip the bar and hold onto Castiel, releasing pathetic little whines as Castiel sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, licking into his mouth, brushing their tongues together and sending tingles tap-dancing up and down his spine. 

"Hey, hey!" A large hand smacks down on the counter, making Castiel and Dean jerk apart. The bartender rolls his eyes and points to the door. "Go bump uglies somewhere else, boys." 

They both blink at the man like they're not certain other people exist, and it takes Dean a minute to get his thoughts together enough to realize that the bartender is entirely right. Castiel and Dean share a quick look, then make a mad dash for the door, both reluctant to get their hands off each other, but also very desperate to get somewhere they can kiss as deeply as they want in peace. 

Dean's so fucking thankful for his foresight to park in the farthest corner of the parking lot, beneath the tree with limbs that reach down and cover most of the spots anyone could see them. If they could see them out in the dark like this, with Baby the lone car at the back of the parking lot, black as the night and going unnoticed by anyone. 

This proves to be a very good thing because Castiel doesn't seem to be in the mood to be patient. He slams Dean up against the side of the car, shamelessly groaning into his mouth and grinding their groins together roughly. Dean honest to god _squeaks_ and fumbles for the back door handle, eager to fold their bodies inside and see where that leads. 

"Get _in,"_ Castiel orders sharply, yanking the door open and full-on _shoving_ Dean inside, following after him without hesitation. 

Dean blinks rapidly and tries to situate himself in any position that's not awkward, but he's not as young as he used to be, and he doesn't quite know what the best position _is._ Castiel is fully in sex-mode and doesn't seem to care about his dilemma; he just pushes Dean around, urging him back against the opposite door and tapping his legs to make him straighten them out. After a moment, Dean gets what he's trying to do and stretches out so that Castiel can hunch down under Baby's ceiling, head brushing the roof as he works to straddle Dean's knees. 

"Cas, you gotta—" 

"Pants. Unbutton them." 

Dean's hands are moving to his belt almost instantly, working it open and tugging on the button, even as he grumbles about Castiel's knee digging into his leg. Castiel doesn't give any fucks about his discomfort, unfurling his shirt and working on his own pants. They manage to pull their dicks out at mostly the same time, which makes Dean forget all about Castiel's knee pressing heavy into his thigh. 

"Let me," Dean says, reaching out for Castiel's bobbing dick, licking his lips. "Cas, can I—" 

Castiel smacks his hand away, then lifts his palm to his mouth, licking into it and catching saliva. Dean one hundred percent knows what's coming next, and he's very excited for it. Wordlessly, Castiel scoots forward and lines their dicks up, wrapping a large hand around them both, slick and wet. Dean groans and tosses his head back, cursing sharply when he connects harshly with the window behind him. 

The inside of Baby is nearly stifling now, their heavy breathing and harried motions heating the small space. The glass is fogging up, their skin starting to sweat, and Dean's eyes are locked onto Castiel's tan hand sliding up and down their lengths, twisting at the heads, going slow and fast in intervals. 

It's so _hot._

_"Dean,"_ Castiel moans, falling forward and catching himself on the window behind Dean's head, bringing their faces close together. 

Just like that, they're kissing again, desperate and deep, gasping into each other's mouths. Castiel starts rolling his hips, spreading their precum over their dicks, fingers tightening on the rise up, twisting and tugging back down. Over and over, faster and faster, and Dean whimpers helplessly as Castiel kisses him hard and intense. 

Castiel pulls away from the kiss, panting as his lips find the underside of Dean's jaw. Dean tips his head back to give him more skin, and Castiel latches on like he's been given a gift. His hand is getting a little dry, and it's just on the edge of being too rough and raw, but Dean fucking _loves it._ And when Castiel sucks hard on his neck, finding a spot he wants to mark up, biting down _hard,_ Dean comes with a surprised shout. Eyes flying open as Castiel's name falls from his lips and his orgasm provides the slick that Castiel needs to fuck him through his release and push him right along into his own. 

Castiel's whole body shudders when he comes, a low groan disappearing into Dean's neck, and he goes boneless after. He sinks down on Dean, dropping their messy dicks, breathing heavily as he rests his head on Dean's shoulder, face tucked into his throat. 

Dean blinks rapidly and stares mindlessly up at the ceiling. "Fuck," he mutters, "I can't believe I just had sex with a complete stranger." 

"Dean." Castiel's voice is a wreck, rough and scratchy. He lifts his head carefully to blink slowly at Dean, looking like he's ready to sprawl out and relax for a few decades. His lips curl up and he reaches up with his dry hand to cup Dean's cheek as he calmly says, "I'm in love with you." 

Dean's entire _being_ melts. He instantly understands why Castiel had wanted to hear Dean tell him that. Those words have a deeper effect than he'd anticipated, and he's a little shocked to feel tears prick at his eyes. He has to blink rapidly and clear his throat to maintain his dignity, all the while his heart does a funny fluttering thing in his chest. 

He realizes belatedly that he's _happy._

Finally. 

"Cas," Dean whispers, looking into his eyes, swallowing thickly, "I—I can't say it, I can't because I'm—I can't, but you have to know that I...that I—" 

"I know." Castiel smiles at him, thumb smoothing over his cheek. "A reliable source informed me of everything I needed to hear." 

Dean releases a weak, wet laugh. "Good. I'm glad he let you know. He's right about all of it." 

Castiel leans forward and presses the softest of kisses to Dean's lips, just a warm pressure that makes Dean feel content and safe and so fucking happy that it almost scares him. But it doesn't because he can't pick up on that, not here, not with Castiel.

"When we need to remind each other, when we need to hear it," Castiel murmurs as they break apart, fingers brushing over Dean's nose like he's cherishing the freckles splattered over his skin, "we'll come back here and let those two talk again." 

Dean smiles. "It's a date." 

"It is," Castiel agrees, beaming, looking pleased with the wording and the insinuation. He's reacting like the cat that's gotten every canary the world has to offer, practically _glowing._

Dean doesn't understand how _he's_ the thing that makes Castiel that happy, but he doesn't mind the warmth that blooms in his chest because of it. 

"For now, we should go home," Dean says, jerking his chin at their currently tangled limbs. It smells like sex in Baby, and it probably will for a little while, so they'll need to air it out on the way home. 

Castiel sighs. "Very well." 

* * *

"So?" 

Dean nearly jumps out of his skin, whirling around in a defensive stance that's more humiliating than helpful. By the time he corrects himself, Sam is already grinning at him for it. He's also got his eyebrows raised, an expectant expression on his face making it clear that he's waiting. 

"What the hell are you doing up?" Dean mutters, smoothing down the dead-guy robe and pretending that he wasn't startled mere seconds ago. 

Sam shrugs. "Eileen kicks in her sleep. She got me right in the knee, and I couldn't fall asleep. I heard you shuffling down the hall a few minutes ago. What are _you_ doing up?" 

"Cas snores." Dean also shrugs. "When he gets really into a deep sleep, it sounds like he's sawing logs." 

For a short moment, they share a quick look of camaraderie, like they're both feeling each other's pain for having partners that hinders their sleeping process. Then it hits that they have partners to do that, and they both smile in unison and duck their heads. It's still a strange notion to look at their lives and come to grips that they get this—however briefly. 

"So, uh, Cas sleeps now?" 

"Well, he did when we lost our memories. I made him 'cause I thought he was human, but I think he only did it half the time. He liked it a lot more than eating, so he'll do it every now and again. Or that's what he says anyway." 

Sam nods, lips breaking into a grin. "So whatever went down at the bar fixed things? You look better. Got a fresh hickey and everything." 

"Oh, yeah, Cas has a thing about biting," Dean mumbles, lips tipping down in consideration as he tries to peer at the new mark on his neck to no avail. When he looks up, Sam's nose is wrinkled. "Hey, I ain't complaining. It feels good when he's—" 

"Okay, okay, I think I got the picture." Sam waves a hand and throws on a bitchface made specifically for when Dean's being gross. "I'll bleach my brain later. Besides, that's not the part I care about. Come on, me and Eileen are kinda invested. How'd it go?" 

Dean sighs, shaking his head as he taps their shitty coffee machine, waiting as it sluggishly spits out his life force. "It went good. Real good. Me and Cas...we're gonna be okay. Better than okay, now." 

"That's great," Sam says sincerely, eyes softening as he pulls down two mugs. "I'm glad you two could pull your heads outta your asses for two seconds and figure out that you're kinda perfect for each other."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm just glad that I can stop freaking out about whether Cas and me are gonna make it." Dean pours them both some coffee as Sam grabs their sugar, raising both eyebrows at Dean in open surprise. "What? I can say that _now._ I was getting a little worried." 

"Yeah, it was looking a little precarious there for a minute," Sam agrees. When Dean shoots him a dirty look, he winces and shrugs. "What? I'm just sayin' that you two had a lot of shit to deal with. Losing your memories caused a lot of problems." 

"Maybe," Dean allows, pulling the mug close to his chest, warming his hands on it. He smiles. "But, ironically enough, it fixed a lot of problems, too." 

Sam throws him a strange look over the rim of his mug. "You saying that being total strangers was the solution to you and his problems?" 

"That's _exactly_ what I'm saying." Dean chuckles and shakes his head. "Sometimes it's kinda nice not trying to translate your feelings through who you think you are as a person. Ya know?" 

"Reading between the lines sort of thing?" Sam asks, lightly curious. "Except there's no guidebook." 

"Yeah, sorta. Some things are just a bitch to translate, you know? Sometimes a clean slate fixes everything." 

"I mean, sure, whatever works. If only finding Chuck and dealing with him was that simple." 

Dean starts to agree when an idea suddenly hits him at full force. He slowly looks up and stares at Sam, mind going a mile a minute. Sam sips his coffee and stares at him in blatant confusion, and Dean's five seconds from losing his collective shit. That's _it._

"Actually, Sam," Dean breathes out, "it might be."

Fifteen minutes later, Dean has the whole family in the foyer. Eileen is glaring at him blearily, looking pissed about being awake, and Sam's doing a shitty job of pretending that he's not staring at her. That boy is head over heels for her, and Dean finds it unbearably adorable. Not that he can talk, he's sort of fixated on Castiel standing at his side, overly alert but soft-looking in Dean's t-shirt and pajama pants. 

That's not the main thing right now. 

"The demon tablet?" Sam mutters when Dean explains, eyebrows crumbling together in blatant doubt and confusion. 

Eyes gleaming with excitement, heart racing at the possible lead, Dean echoes, "The demon tablet." 

And that is, as they say, the beginning of the end.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't want to forget for real the things it took to lead them here. Those memories are his, and he cherishes them. 

_2 years later…_

Dean adjusts his shirt, clearing his throat as he steps up to the door. He can hear _You Shook Me All Night Long_ by AC/DC faintly through the door, which he deems perfectly appropriate for the situation. He checks his hair one more time in his reflection from the glass on the door, running his fingers through it and winking at himself. 

Then Dean steps into the bar. 

The place is bustling with people, far more than the first time he entered this place. It is a weekend though, so he's not too terribly surprised. The bartender—Keith—takes one look at him and rolls his eyes, nodding in acknowledgement. They've gotten to know each other a little over the past two years, and poor Keith has had to throw him and his hook-up from this bar more times that Dean can count. It's becoming a bit of an inside joke. 

Dean scans the room, searching for one specific patron, his lips curling up as soon as he catches sight of Castiel standing by the jukebox, frowning as he tries to shove a crumbled dollar bill into the slot. The jukebox spits it back out at him, and Castiel glares at it, trying to smooth the dollar out. 

Well, there's his opening. 

As he walks over, Dean digs in his wallet to pull out a better suited dollar, sliding up behind Castiel and peering over his shoulder. Castiel is apparently trying to play _Faith_ by George Michael, which is so incredibly funny on so many levels. Dean fights a grin and clears his throat. 

"Looks like you're struggling," he says, swallowing a laugh when Castiel startles slightly. 

Castiel doesn't turn around and look at him. He smooths the dollar out and quietly says, "Thank you, but I've got it." 

Dean sidles up next to the jukebox, leaning up against it, smiling at Castiel. "You know, old machines like this are pretty fickle. Here, why don't we swap dollars? All you gotta do is give me your name and let me pick a song." 

"I already know what I want to play." Castiel arches an eyebrow at Dean, not batting an eye. "As I said, I think I've got it handled." 

"Okay, how about this?" Dean hovers closer to Castiel, smiling winningly. "I give you this dollar, and all you gotta do is give me your name?" 

Castiel pauses, eyeing him suspiciously, then he snatches Dean's dollar. "Cas. And I'm keeping my dollar." 

"Okay, fair enough," Dean says with a small laugh, excitement quivering in his chest. "So, Cas, what brings you here tonight?" 

"I'm fond of the area." 

"Are you? You local?" 

"Just passing through." 

"Heading to where?" 

Castiel heaves a sigh and clicks the little buttons that will flip through the selections. "That's no business to tell a stranger." 

"Well, I'm Dean, and you're Cas. Look at that, we're not strangers anymore," Dean teases. 

"What are _you_ doing here?" Castiel challenges, arching an eyebrow. 

Dean shrugs. "It's a bar. I wanted a drink." 

"Then why aren't you at the bar, ordering one?" Castiel asks bluntly. 

"Ouch." Dean lets out a soft laugh and clutches his chest like he's been shot. "Ya know, maybe I walked in here with all intentions of getting a drink, saw you struggling, and decided to offer my help." 

"Well, I've been helped. Thank you." 

"Or, maybe I saw you across the room and knew I had to come talk to you." 

Castiel unthaws slightly, amusement crossing his face briefly. "Oh? But Dean, my back was to the door. How could you have seen me?" 

Dean reaches out and taps the glass of the jukebox, winking. "Could see the reflection of those blue eyes all the way across the room. Kinda hard to miss." 

"Well, you've talked to me," Castiel tells him, clicking the button that starts up the song, lips curling up at the first note starts. "What next? What precisely were you hoping to get out of this encounter? I'm very curious about that." 

"Why don't you let me buy you a drink and you find out?" Dean offers hopefully. 

Castiel smiles wide and sharp. "I don't drink, but thank you. Have a good night." 

"You don't—dude, you're at a fucking _bar,"_ Dean blurts, surging forward to fall into step beside Castiel. "No, you know what, that's fine. I'll make a deal with you." 

"I'm not fond of deals," Castiel rattles off. 

Dean chokes on a laugh. "Okay, fair, but I swear this one is completely legit," he promises, knocking his elbow into Castiel's. 

"First, what are the stipulations?" 

"If I win, you unclench a little and give me thirty minutes to get to know you," Dean suggests, smiling sweetly, the pinnacle of innocence. 

Castiel rolls his eyes. "And if I win?" 

"Then I'll leave you alone for the rest of the night." 

"Alright, so what's the deal?" 

Dean grins. "If I can get your dollar in the jukebox, I win. If not...well, there goes the neighborhood." 

Castiel pauses right in the middle of the room, stepping out of the way when a server walks past and casually greets them with, "Hey, Cas. Hey, Dean," and keeps on moving. They both politely ignore him, entirely focused on each other. Castiel sizes Dean up, considering the offer, looking down at his shitty dollar in genuine suspicion. 

"Very well," Castiel agrees, holding his dollar out, watching Dean pluck it from his grip. "And the machine must take it. If it returns the dollar, the deal is off. You get three tries." 

Dean winks at him. "I only need one." 

On the way to the jukebox, Dean grabs a small stack of napkins and a half-drunk glass of ice water that hasn't been bussed from the table yet. He also scoops up the shattered salt shaker sitting in the cart, waiting to be thrown away—all that matters is that the circular bottom is intact. Castiel watches him, head tilted, eyes following his every move. 

Dean dips the napkins in the water, just enough to wet the tip. He rubs it along both sides of the dollar bill, making it damp and flimsy. Then he takes out his lighter and flicks it, running the flame over the broken salt shaker, heating the bottom until he almost can't touch it with his scarred hands. After, he makes direct eye contact with Castiel, presses the dollar bill against the wall, and drags the heated salt shaker over it slowly, small curls of steam floating in the air. Carefully, Dean presses the wrinkles out until the dollar bill is stiff and dry, no longer crumbled. 

Castiel blinks. 

"And voilà," Dean gloats, grinning as he feeds the dollar to the jukebox, bowing low at the waist when the machine doesn't spit it back out. 

Castiel stares at him."How did you—" 

"You just gotta have a little faith, Cas," Dean says easily, his words echoed by the song Castiel had picked out mere moments ago. 

"Thirty minutes," Castiel tells him, shaking his head, impressed despite himself. "That's all you get."

Dean chuckles warmly, his words slow and sure. "Trust me, sweetheart, that's all I need." 

This turns out to be true. An hour later, they're shut in the shitty motel room just a little bit away from the bar, Castiel sucking Dean's dick so good that he's pretty sure he's having an out-of-body experience. When he comes and nearly sinks to the floor in a boneless heap, Castiel holding him up easily, Dean can't help but think “ _See, look what having faith got me?”_

* * *

Rubbing the crick out of his neck, Dean yawns as he sits up in bed. Castiel hums in greeting, wide awake in the way he is when he has opted not to sleep the night before. Dean smacks his lips and flops back to the bed, turning his head to look at Castiel. 

"Check-out is in an hour," Castiel informs him. 

Dean hums. "Looks like I'll be getting a shower when we get back. Why didn't you wake me up?" 

"You were sleeping very well. I didn't want to disturb you," Castiel says softly. 

"Hell yeah I was." Dean waggles his eyebrows and lightly pokes the slight divot in Castiel's chin, snorting when his eyes cross to try and see. "You wore me out, _again._ Last night was good. It's been too long since we did that." 

Castiel hums, reaching up to press his fingers through Dean's hair, nails lightly scratching over his scalp. "Yes, well, we've been busy. But I agree. We need to make that a habit once more. I've missed it." 

"Yeah, you were having a ball," Dean notes, arching an eyebrow as Castiel sheepishly smiles. "Playing a little hard to get, weren't ya? You do like to watch me work for it." 

"You enjoy it." 

"Yeah, you're right, I do." 

"Perhaps next time I'll be easy," Castiel suggests, leaning over to peck Dean on the lips. "Perhaps not. Either way, it will be enjoyable." 

"Yeah." Dean sighs happily, tilting his head back to look at Castiel's features. "There's something about it, pretending not to know each other. It's like a callback to losing our memories, but ten times hotter. Plus, I think there's something funny about the locals thinking we're a couple 'a freaks." 

"Everyone is strange, Dean." 

"No, I mean freaks as in _kinky._ They all know we're a couple who pretends to meet and then goes off somewhere to have sex." 

Castiel blinks. "Oh. Well, that's not abnormal, I don't think. I'm sure couples elsewhere do it." 

"Not in a small town like this," Dean counters, pushing up on his elbows. He quirks a small smile, scraping his nails over Castiel's light stubble. "But it's whatever. They're missing out." 

"They are," Castiel agrees. 

Dean grins and moves forward to press a firm kiss to Castiel's lips, humming when Castiel instantly reciprocates. When he pulls away, he asks, "You heard anything from Sam or Eileen?" 

"Yes, Eileen and I texted last night after you fell asleep. Different time zones, as you know. It was early morning for her. She wanted to tell me about the beautiful waterfalls her and Sam visited," Castiel informs him. 

"Dude, we need a fucking honeymoon," Dean groans, draping his arm on Castiel's chest and resting his chin on the back of his hand. "We're practically married anyway. I mean, we can't go overseas 'cause there ain't no way I'm getting on a plane, but maybe we could go to Canada. They got some nice honeymoon spots, and we could drive there." 

Castiel hums pensively. "We could." 

"We'll look into it. We'll have to wait until Eileen and Sam get back though. I don't want to leave the cases hanging with no one to pick 'em up." 

"Okay, Dean." 

Pausing, Dean stares at him. "Is that something you'd want to do?" 

"I would prefer the honeymoon to be real, but otherwise...I would very much enjoy it." Castiel offers a sincere smile. 

"You wanna get married?" Dean asks. 

Castiel stops to consider that, apparently for the first time. He eventually does his equivalent of a shrug, which is just a small twitch of his eyebrows and the lazy flick of his fingers. "I would not be opposed to being tied to you in such a way, but it's not a requirement. I haven't been looking for it to happen, if that's what you're asking." 

"Oh. Okay." Dean nods and taps Castiel's naked chest, smiling at him easily. "We'll look into it, see what we're gonna have to do to make it happen. Still gonna have to wait for Sam and Eileen. They'd kill us if we got hitched while they were off celebrating being newlyweds." 

"Then a honeymoon," Castiel prompts. 

"Niagara falls, here we come. Ooh! You know what else we could do? We could go in restaurants and propose to each other to get free dessert." 

"That seems underhanded." 

"Yeah, 'cause we're stand-up guys." 

"Fair enough." 

Dean snorts and pushes himself up with a groan, stretching like a cat. "Come on, let's get our shit together and head back to the bunker." 

Castiel joins him in getting out of bed, stretching his hands above his head and sighing. Dean's gaze scans his naked form, mouth going dry. He's licked nearly every inch of Castiel's body, but he's still struck with the urge every time he sees him, hands itching to reach out and touch like he'll never get the chance to ever again. He can't help it. 

It's easy to brush off that desire—though it never fully goes away—when Castiel starts bitching at him for leaving his boots in the walkway yet again. They get into a little bickering match, which ends with Dean making faces at Castiel and shoving his feet into his boots to get them out of the way. Castiel smiles at him, triumphant. 

Their arguments, small or heavy alike, don't really scare him anymore. No matter what they fight about, Castiel always stays, and Dean's getting really good at apologizing. It's actually easier now that they're together because Dean almost always gets make-up sex out of it—and anyway, he genuinely does feel like shit for fighting with Castiel, so that helps too. 

But he's gotta admit, even just to himself, that their little ritual from last night really does wonders for them. It's been awhile since they last did it, five months or longer for sure, and there's something about it that settles him. 

Sometimes, it's not just pretending to be strangers to flirt and end up fucking. There's as many times where they _"meet"_ at the bar, just so Dean can tell a stranger how in love with his partner he is. And in turn, Castiel gets to hear it, gets to say it back, and maybe it's a little odd, but Dean's pleased with it anyway. It feels like a special tradition just between them, a secret that only they fully understand. 

Dean thinks about where all this started, about losing his memories and believing he was a serial killer with an equally murderous husband, wanting to forget everything he found out about his real life. Except for Castiel, never him. Dean hadn't wanted to forget him, couldn't, because Castiel was all he knew. 

In a way, that's the best thing that ever happened to him, to have a clean slate. Everyone's just trying to find who the hell they are, and Dean thinks that forgetting everything he ever thought and knew about himself brought him one step closer to that. What a man can't remember doesn't exist for him. All of Dean's limitations, his fears, his tragedies and pain and doubts...all of it hadn't been real simply because he hadn't been able to recall them. 

Getting to wipe away everything about himself, forgetting himself even for just one night, and having fun with Castiel is just a version of the real thing, but it helps in ways he's never prepared for. 

"Dean?" Castiel calls, standing at the door with his eyebrows raised, holding Baby's keys out. 

Dean blinks. "Yeah, I'm coming." 

Castiel simply nods and steps outside, trusting Dean to follow after him. Dean pauses to smile slightly, his heart feeling too large for his chest. Getting the chance to forget with Castiel again is always fun, always enlightening, but Dean doubts he'd ever trade in the life he leads now for the real thing. 

Dean doesn't want to forget for real the things it took to lead them here. Those memories are his, and he cherishes them. 

* * *

When they return to the bunker, Adam is waiting for them at the table. Or Michael, Dean can never tell until one of them speaks. 

Dean tries to tamp down on his surprise like he always does when they come around. It had been a shock at first, but he's slowly adjusting to it. He won't admit it to save his life, but he's actually really pleased to see his half-brother. There's a lot of things screwed up between them, things Dean and Sam can never begin to make up for, but Adam has made it a point to stick around and let them try. 

He's not too fond of Michael though, still a little freaked out by the archangel who was destined to wear his body like a suit to the prom. Even if he's found a different body that he clearly prefers, Dean can't quite shake the strangeness of the situation. Plus he has the oddest inkling that Michael and Adam's relationship is...well, it's a little too intense for Dean's comfort levels. 

But it's not his place to have an opinion on it. Michael was there for Adam when Dean wasn't, so he keeps his mouth shut and finds quiet moments to bitch about it to Castiel, who listens sympathetically and pretends to care about whatever Adam and Michael have going on. He doesn't, Dean knows that, but he acts like he does for Dean's sake, and that's all that really matters. 

"What's up?" Dean asks as he sits his duffle down on the table, eyebrows raising. "Something wrong, or is this a friendly visit?" 

Adam's head tilts, face suspiciously blank, and oh, that's Michael. "Just a visit. Where have you been?" 

"Out," Castiel says, pulling out a chair and sitting across from Michael, blinking at him. "How are you, Michael? Adam mentioned that you two would be in Ireland last time he was here." 

"Adam wanted to go," Michael says, face twitching like he's holding back a grimace. "Personally, I did not much care for it, but he enjoyed himself." 

Dean snorts and taps his knuckles to the table, bobbing his head. "I'm sure he did. Probably spent all his vacation check in one sitting, didn't he?" 

"He wanted to taste all the beers," Michael murmurs, which answers Dean's question. Suddenly tilting his head, like he hears something they can't, the tension bleeds from his body and he chuckles warmly. "Oh, shut up, you enjoyed yourself too. Don't listen to him, he liked at least half the brews we tried, and that's really saying something." 

"Hello, Adam," Castiel greets. 

Adam smiles slightly. "'Sup. Ireland was nice, thanks for asking. And we _did_ spend most of our vacation check, but to be fair, it was worth it." 

"I'd say so," Dean agrees heartily, flopping down in the open seat next to Castiel. "So, are you sticking around for awhile?" 

"Not for long," Adam tells him. "We go back to work in a couple of days, so we're gonna head home later tonight. I figured we could stop and check in. Sam and Eileen still on their honeymoon?" 

Dean nods. "Yeah, but they should be coming home soon. I'll let them know you asked about them. How's work? Still doing security?" 

Adam rolls his eyes. "Michael _hates_ it, but it pays well. Shut up, it does, and you know it. He doesn't like all the drunks." 

Michael makes a brief appearance, his shoulders straightening, eyes glowing briefly. He looks very annoyed. "They're a _disgrace._ Humans falling all over themselves, smelling of sweat and desperation, _messy._ I'd sooner smite them than keep them secure." 

Dean shifts uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, do me a favor and _don't._ Please and thanks. People are messy, that's fair, but they're still people." 

"That's what I've been telling him!" Adam bursts out, tossing his hands up and slumping in his seat, looser than Michael can be. "See? Dean's right. And if I could get drunk, I'd _gladly_ be a mess for a little while. God, I miss getting drunk." 

"An appreciation for the unhealthy effects from alcohol seems to run in the family," Castiel murmurs, shaking his head. "Sam and Dean are quite fond of it as well."

"Says the guys who drank an entire liquor store once just for the sole purpose of getting wasted," Dean teases, watching Castiel blush faintly. 

"Castiel," Michael says disapprovingly, taking over for Adam and frowning, "did you really? You lowered yourself to such standards?" 

"In his defence, he was dealing with his daddy issues, and take it from me, you wanna be drunk for that," Dean says, shrugging lightly. 

"Amen to that," Adam says with a snort, flipping between himself and Michael so easily that Dean's finding it harder to pick up on the transition. 

"I had just come to terms with the fact that our father was no good," Castiel explains, waving a hand and huffing. "Unfortunately, I had to face that revelation frequently over the years that followed." 

"Well, you don't gotta deal with that anymore," Adam says with a gentle smile. "How long has it been now? Since God was taken care of?" 

Dean blows out a deep breath, eyes bulging as he considers how much time has passed since God finally met his demise. "Shit, it's been...what, nearly two years now, Cas?" 

"Yes," Castiel confirms. 

"Yeah, two years," Dean echoes. 

Adam taps the table, eyes bright when he grins a little maniacally at them. "And the world kept right on turning. That's life for ya." 

"You can say that again." Dean slowly pushes himself from his seat, pointing at Adam. "I'm gonna grab a beer. You want one?" 

"Yeah, sure." 

"Cas?" 

"No." 

"What are your plans for the day?" Adam asks Castiel as Dean heads into the kitchen to grab a couple of beers. 

When Dean returns, it's clearly Michael that's got the wheel, and he's listening intently as Castiel speaks. Dean passes him the beer, and Michael mechanically opens it, wrinkling his nose as he drinks it. Not for the first time, Dean's blown away about the bond between them—that Michael goes out of his way to do things for Adam, to let him have control when he wants it, to just... _care_ about him is so hard for Dean to wrap his mind around. He's grateful for it anyway, happy that Adam gets that freedom, even if it's one of the weirdest things Dean's ever had to witness. 

"And we will perhaps pick up another case before Eileen and Sam return," Castiel is saying, looking unfazed by Michael's actions. "If you'd like, I could text Adam and let him know when they get back. You can visit on one of your days off." 

Michael cuts his eyes to the side, staring into empty air, then nods. "Yes, Adam would like that." 

"You got any plans for the day?" Dean asks as he sits down. "Besides hanging out with us, I mean." 

"We should go eat," Adam blurts out, his body coming to life as he takes over again. "Ireland may have the best brews, but America owns the burger game. _Yes,_ Michael, I'll let you eat the pickles." Adam rolls his eyes and looks at Castiel and Dean with exasperation. "They're his favorite part." 

"Must run in the family," Dean jokes, reaching over to poke Castiel's arm. "He likes to suck on 'em. I think it's got something to do with the salt." 

"I'm not fond of the texture," Castiel says solemnly. 

Adam chuckles. "Yeah, neither is Michael." 

Dean and Adam share a look, both on the same wavelength, willingly saddled with two fussy angels they're overly fond of. It's yet another reminder that Adam and Michael are a little closer than Dean wants to acknowledge, but hell, at least he's happy. And it's kinda nice to have something to bond over, even if it is being happy with picky-eater angels who simply want to protect their humans. 

"I could go for a burger," Dean says. 

"Great," Adam chirps happily. 

Castiel rolls his eyes. "You're both overly attached to grease and red meat." 

Michael slips out, sighing. "Aren't they?" 

It's their turn to share a look, and Dean has to bite back a grin. He likes to think that Adam's smiling as well, even if he's not able to show it currently. And he's right. When Adam takes back over a mere few moments later, he's laughing. 

Dean doesn't hold back and joins him. 

* * *

Sam and Eileen are back home a mere two weeks later, both sporting tans and bright smiles. Dean's so fucking happy to see them that he can't really contain his excitement. He wraps Eileen in a hug, kisses her cheek, compliments her shorter hair—she must have had it cut on the honeymoon. He hugs Sam for just a bit too long, clapping him on the back probably too hard, but Sam's beaming. 

"Have fun?" Dean asks, staring between them with a broad grin that hurts his cheeks. 

"Oh, it was _wonderful,"_ Eileen praises, waving her hand through the air. The ring on her finger is simple but pretty, and it looks good on her hand. "I got to hold a monkey; it yanked on Sam's hair a lot. Oh, and we had the nicest hotel room." 

Sam bobs his head. "Nicest one I've ever stayed in. They had complimentary wine and everything." 

"You both look very happy," Castiel says softly, a fond look on his face as he gazes at them. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourselves." 

"We did!" Sam exclaims, face lighting up. "Oh, guess what? We got to, like, explore these tombs, right? Dude, you're not gonna believe what we found. It's in my bag; you've _got_ to see this, Cas, it's amazing." 

Castiel dutifully follows after Sam as his hands fly around, his excited babbling barely making any sense to Dean as they disappear down the hallway. Eileen stares after them, love shining in her eyes. Dean reaches out and touches her shoulder, smiling. 

_I'm happy you're happy,_ he signs. 

Eileen grins. _So happy,_ she replies. Then she opens her mouth and says, "How was everything here?" 

"Oh, you know, the usual." Dean waves a hand flippantly. "Handled a couple of cases, went on a few dates, rearranged the library so Sam will have something to bitch about." 

"That's nice of you," Eileen jokes, amusement lighting up her face. "You know how Sam enjoys having something to bitch about." 

Dean snorts. "He lives for it. So, hit me with it. I'm sure you got plenty of stories to tell." 

Eileen's smile turns naughty. "To be completely honest, we spent most of our time shut up in the hotel room. We made _great_ use of the gag gifts you gave us for a wedding present." 

"Oh no." Dean's face twists in horror. "Even the dick-shaped bath-bombs?" 

"They smelled quite nice, actually," Eileen says, cackling when Dean fake-gags. 

"And here I thought Sam would burn it all," Dean mutters, shaking his head. 

There's a glint in Eileen's eyes. "He wanted to at first, until I showed him the benefits of the fuzzy, pink handcuffs. Thanks for that, by the way." 

Dean groans. "Okay, okay, I've heard enough. Glad you had fun and all, but please spare me. Any _other_ stories you're dying to tell?" 

"Well, we won pretty big at a casino. Sam's dangerously good at poker, did you know?" 

"Hell yeah I do. I taught him everything he knows. Did y'all spend it all in one night?" 

"Yes," Eileen says with a shrug. "Sam bought out a restaurant, so we could have it to ourselves. We ate so _much._ He nearly had to roll me out of there." 

Dean laughs loudly. "Oh, that's perfect. Actually, that's pretty sweet. Kid's got his head screwed on straight." 

"Well, obviously. He married me." 

"Fair point." 

"So, what about you?" Eileen raises her eyebrows, eyeing Dean curiously. "Anything noteworthy happen while we were away?"

Dean pauses. He starts to tell her with his words, but catches himself in the nick of time. Things are a lot easier for him to say in sign language, he's learned. There's something about communicating without ever having to speak a word that soothes him. Once he really picked up sign language, he spent a lot of time just enjoying talking to Eileen that way. She knows a lot of his secrets simply because he feels comfortable sharing them if he doesn't have to voice them. Plus he loves Eileen; they're a lot closer than he'd expected them to be in the beginning. 

She's not just his little brother's girlfriend, fiancée, wife...she's also a really good friend. She's the girl who took care of him when he'd accidentally drank Everclear, the woman who urged him to go after Castiel when he'd been scared to do so, one of the few people he actually trusts to take care of Sam. She's his sister-in-law now, legally, but he's been thinking of her as family for years. 

Dean swallows and signs, _There is. Me and Cas decided we want a honeymoon, too._

Eileen's eyes bulge and her hands start flying, almost too fast for Dean to keep up with. _You're getting married? When? Who proposed?_

_No, no, it's not like that,_ he signs, shaking his head and frowning. _We just agreed that we wanted to. I think it will be simple and small. Just for us and family._

_Oh, that's lovely._ Eileen smiles prettily. _Me and Sam have been waiting for this, you know._

Dean huffs a soft laugh. _I think I have too, actually._

"You know Sam is going to freak out, right?" Eileen asks, reaching out to squeeze Dean's arm. 

"Yeah, that's why I told Cas to tell him," Dean says with a playful wink.

Eileen draws Dean into a hug. "I'm so happy for you. It's a lovely feeling, marrying the love of your life. Take it from me, the sex gets even _better."_

Dean tosses his head back and laughs, watching her pull away and wink at him. He's about to reply when Sam comes barreling into the room, eyes wide with fresh excitement. 

"Oh my god, you and Cas are getting married?" he blurts out breathlessly. 

"That was quick," Dean mutters, shooting Castiel a look when he comes walking through the door. 

Castiel shrugs. "He asked if anything of significance happened in his absence. Deciding to get married seems significant." 

"Fair enough." Dean turns to Sam, who looks like he's going to vibrate out of his skin. "Yes, Sam, we're gonna do the married thing at some point. No, there's no ring, and no one proposed. We just talked about it. We want to go to Canada for our honeymoon. And _no,_ it won't be a big, flashy wedding; it'll be even simpler than yours and Eileen's. Me and Cas already talked about it, and we don't want a big production." 

Sam narrows his eyes. "Okay, fine, but there's gotta be vows and at least one dance; that's just tradition." 

Dean looks at Castiel, arching an eyebrow. "Hear that Cas? It's _tradition."_

"We're not exactly traditional people, Sam. I think a small get-together and an officiator will suffice. I don't need a traditional setting to broadcast my love for Dean. He's well aware." Castiel rolls his eyes when Sam deflates slightly. "However, I am not opposed to one dance, at least." 

Sam perks back up instantly. 

"I get to pick the music," Dean says quickly, calling dibs as soon as possible. 

"Ya know, Jody could get ordained by tomorrow if we asked," Sam says lightly, shrugging innocently. 

"There's no rush," Castiel says, looking at Dean with a soft, loving smile. 

Dean grins back. "Yeah, we got plenty of time." 

_Forever,_ he thinks, _however long we want, years and years to spend together, and that's exactly what we're going to do._

* * *

Dean wakes up in a tangle of sheets, hot and uncomfortable, the last curls of a nightmare slipping away. He frowns as he squints around his dark room, searching for something before he even knows what it is. Or who, actually, when he realizes that he's looking for Castiel. 

He's not here. 

The clock says it's 4:16am, which tells Dean all he needs to know. Castiel rarely leaves the bed before seven in the morning, even if he doesn't sleep, waiting around for Dean to wake up. He only slips out for one reason, and Dean sighs as he kicks the covers off himself, dragging himself out of bed. 

He yawns as he stuffs himself into one of his thicker coats, grumbling under his breath as he struggles to shove his socked-feet into his boots without anything to hold onto to keep him balanced. Once he's suitable for the chill outside, he shuffles through the sleeping bunker, easing into the quiet. 

It's just starting to get light outside, on the precipice of dawn, the molten night turning to a softer blue. The sun will start making its way across the sky soon, slowly rising and falling as the earth rotates determinedly. There was a time that Dean doubted the world would make it, a time that Chuck threatened that, but that concern has long since passed, and Dean's thankful to have been wrong. 

His boots crunch over the leaves as he walks down the trail outside the bunker, veering off the path through the woods, walking the steps he's come to know without ever needing to look. His destination isn't too far into the trees, and he spots Castiel standing at the base of a well-known tree, just as he expects to. He sighs softly as he approaches. 

Dean remembers building the short pillar atop the roots of this tree, working all day and sweating as the sun beat down through the foliage. He and Castiel had gotten into a fight, one that had dredged up old pain and arguments they'd already buried. But it's hard to keep some things dormant, especially when they mean so much, so it's only natural that they fight about Jack from time to time. 

That particular argument had been _very_ bad, quite possibly the worst since they started dating seriously. Dean had felt impossibly guilty and angry, unwilling to see Castiel, who was equally against spending any time with him. So he'd turned his energy into building a wooden pillar that wouldn't be torn down without serious effort. On top of it, there's a picture of Jack, his smiling face caught in stillness. Right next to it, there's a photo of Mary, a recent one from before she died a second time, her blonde hair short and her green eyes bright with laughter. Down the sides of the pillar, Dean had carved flowers into it, the vines winding down and the petals a little wonky but definitely not able to wither with time. 

He'd put a lot of work into it, getting his frustrations out through being productive, and the finished product is actually really good. It's the best memorial he can give them, and the people still alive that loved them deserve to have a place to mourn them properly. That's something they don't usually get in this life; the chance to mourn those they lost. 

Dean had eventually plucked up the courage to show Castiel, and he'd been horrified when Castiel had stared at it in length before breaking down and crying. But Castiel had kissed him through his tears, thanked him profusely, and camped out at the pillar for the entire day. 

Castiel often comes out here, just to stand there and look at the pictures. There's a sadness that hangs over him out here, but Dean thinks that might be a good thing. It's important to grieve, he's learned, and he's glad to have a hand in helping Castiel do that. And, in turn, he showed it to Sam, who visits it every morning before his run, and Dean comes out here sometimes to eat a bowl of Jack's favorite cereal. 

As Dean steps up beside Castiel, staring at the picture of his mom, he asks, "Missing him today?"

"I miss him every day," Castiel replies softly, leaning into Dean. "But yes, it's quite strong today." 

"Do you want me to go?" Dean asks quietly. 

Castiel threads his fingers through Dean's, resting his head over on Dean's shoulder. "No," he whispers, "stay please." 

"Of course, sweetheart." Dean presses a kiss to Castiel's hair, closing his eyes and swallowing. "I'll be right here. Always." 

Castiel smiles slightly. "I know." 

In a calm silence, they lean on each other and stare at the pictures of the two they lost, paying homage to their memory. There's something to be said about how they stand as a unit in front of Mary and Jack's photos, existing without them in the world, having nearly lost each other in the aftermath of losing them. Yet, they're together, taking it one day at a time, stronger than ever. Dean likes to think that Mary and Jack would be proud of them. 

And maybe all they have is memories now, but Dean knows just how important those are. He's been without them, drowned in the midst of them, held on for the ride while more were made. They're important, more than he can fully grasp, and he clings to every single one—good and bad. Every moment in his life has meaning, has purpose, and he can only realize that through memories, measuring the weight of every second of his life when he thinks to look back on them. The memories hit him, and sometimes they hurt, but mostly...they make him smile. 

Because here's the thing. Time keeps on going, moments break apart, he loses himself, loses family, and change happens whether he likes it or not. But he doesn't have to be afraid of that, not anymore, not with what he's learned in the past few years.

Things end...but memories are forever. 

Dean squeezes Castiel's hand, and Castiel squeezes back, and this memory is one that Dean knows he'll cherish for the rest of his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all, folks! 
> 
> Again, another huge thanks to everyone involved. Couldn't have done it without so many of them! ❤ 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! I do hope you all enjoyed it. If you did, don't hesitate to drop off some kudos and please leave a comment; I really do cherish them! With that, I'll see y'all on the next one ;)
> 
> Ta! 
> 
> -SOBS


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